


Seasons

by MazzieMay



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-03 21:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12756138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MazzieMay/pseuds/MazzieMay
Summary: Ladybug and Chat Noir are giving the chance to learn from past Miraculous wielders mistakes, but they first have to recognize themasmistakes. Jealousy never has a place at the table, but it always finds a seat.A history lesson in four seasons.





	1. summer

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon divergent in regards to the history and number of Kwami and Miraculous. Second person POV, stream of consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The past is always tense, the future perfect.”  
> ― Zadie Smith

**SUMMER  
1/1**

 

In the summer, comes Fortuna Cavalo.

You’ve known you and Chat aren’t the only Miraculous wielders, and are certainly not the first. To meet another, though, another before your _time_ , is a pill you struggle to swallow.

Chat’s identity remains a mystery to you (always _will_ , if you have your way), but you’d bet your last Euro he’s within a year of your age.

Fortuna is clearly _not_.

Obviously a woman, vivacious and mature in so many ways, she’s also experienced - far more so than you, and while it’s stupid and petty, this is a frustration for you instead of a help. You are Ladybug, Parisian hero extraordinaire, where everyone looks to you for leadership, advice, a plan.

Fortuna hangs back, lets you lead, plays off your moves. Never reveals her weapon so as not infringe on your guys’ style.

Says she’s respecting you on your turf.

Humoring you, more like it.

Ticking you off.

Apparently, you’re the only one that’s bothered. Let us not forget _that_ development: Chat Noir likes Fortuna just _fine_. She laughs at his lame jokes and worse puns, and he enjoys fighting beside her. Their not in sync, not like you and him (you chuff in self-confirmation), but she runs around the battlefield the way he does, only _more_.

She’s fast, strong and stands as tall as any _fortunate horse_ should.

He’s impressed.

You try not to be.

She’s so understanding of your suspicions (“We’ve been played before,” is your cool challenge). Cooperative and tolerant, but she won’t be pressured. The information she offers is certainly convincing, and Tikki assures you she is the real deal.

Hailing from Brazil, she worked alongside the Ladybug and Chat before you. Her Miraculous grants her a purification ability - _Precious Absolve_ \- but she cannot restore damage the way Miraculous Ladybug can. Chat Noir would _Cataclysm_ the corrupted object, Fortuna would purify the dark butterfly, and Ladybug would restore and repair whatever damage was done.

They were quite the trio.

Yeah, well, you and Chat are quite the _duo_ , so -

Speaking of, he’s not impressed with your attitude this last month. When the person who thinks you can do no wrong is clicking his tongue when your mouth starts to work faster than your brain, you decide to try to find some chill.

If there’s one thing you can’t pooh-pooh at, it’s her uniform. All that glitters is gold, and her body shimmers from sunrise to sunset; she flips and slides and cartwheels wrapped in precious metal tempered impossibly thin. It’s as if she were dipped in paint to the top of her chest, where a deep and navy blue stretches from her collarbone down her arms.

Her mask isn’t so much a mask as it is more gold paint. That same liquid sunshine splashes out from her eyes, splattered and scattering across her dark skin. Her lips are as blue as her gloves, and you’re envious of how well she owns what would surely be a mess on anyone else. You’re impressed as a fashion designer _and_ a woman.

Something else you noticed? A term you’ve seen tossed around in books and fashion notes is ‘honey-coloured’ - but Fortuna is the first person you’ve ever met that fits the description. Your sweet Adrien may be sun kissed, but this girl is sun _ravished_. The skin tone you thought was made up is complimented by her dark hair. It’s longer than yours but shorter than Alya’s, swishing back and forth along her shoulder blades. What would be an unnoticeable brown is a great frame against the gold on her face.

And the green of her eyes. Where your sweet Adrien’s eyes are bright and inviting, catching every ray of light that is lucky enough to cast against him, Fortuna’s are darker, subtler. With brown flecks peppered around the pupils, apparently there is nothing about her that is uninteresting.

Even her teeth are alpine against that dark blue lipstick.

You’d recognize her in a heartbeat out of uniform. Not that you’d get the chance; as a student, the most interaction you have with adults takes place as your parents’ bakery.

Fortuna has no such intentions. While polite and cooperative, she’s here for Work. When her Kwami informed her Hawkmoth had reappeared and relocated - both in wielder and location - Fortuna had assumed she was done. A new Hawkmoth, sure, okay, but there is also a new Ladybug and Chat Noir.

**#**

The fight has waged on, in a very different timezone.

Though she can’t help but notice this Hawkmoth - that is to say, _your_ Hawkmoth - is by and far more active than hers. She and your predecessor saw Akuma maybe once a month, where Paris is troubled nearly once a week. She also has noticed that the majority of Parisian Akuma have been children. You try not to sniff at that; students, sure, but you could hardly confuse any of your classmates for _children_.

Still, you find the age difference and frequency worth paying closer attention to. Fortuna advises her victims were adults, always, and did far more damage. The younger victims, she reasons, have a source for their pain, typically a person (typically Chloé). It makes their transformation, powers, and goal laser focused.

“Resulting in minimum damage,” she says.

You and Chat stare bug(ugh)eyed. 

“My lucky pony”, your kitty starts his easy chastise, “My lady and I work fur-ly hard.”

You give a sideways glare from muscle memory, while Fortuna gives a smile with a touch tongue between her teeth.

“No doubt,” she assures, “but the damage done in Brasília was far more severe. Imagine what happens here, and multiply it by… three.”

Three.

A realistic number.

Holy cow.

She explains that the severity of things is why she tended to purify the Akuma butterfly: the energy needed for _Miraculous Ladybug_ was so taxing, sometimes her Ladybug couldn’t manage to repair everything if she had to handle the butterfly herself.

You can’t imagine. Like, for real _cannot_ imagine. When you fact check with Tikki later that night, she sighs heavily.

“It was hard on Beatriz,” she says sadly. “She never complained, but it took so much out of her because I just couldn’t do it.”

_Beatriz._

A ghost of Ladybugs past has a name.

You feel bad, but your reassurances that Tiki did nothing wrong are a little mechanical.

You’re caught up in your own bad head space.

**#**

When the skies start turning orange in August, you arrive late to a patrol.

Chat Noir is doing some sleuthing of his own, and you hang back on the fire escape to let them talk on the roof.

“Did they know each other’s identities?”

Kitty, why?

That’s a silly question, you know why.

“No. We all decided early on it’d be easier that way.” There’s a hesitance, Fortuna weighing something in her mind. You can’t see him, but you know Chat is holding his breath just like you are.

“I think… I believe Noir had kids.”

Noir had kids.

 _Had_.

“Amongst any of us, he seemed like he had the most to live for.”

Your heart is in your stomach as well as your throat.

“But that’s all I ever gleamed. They died as strangers. Not as hard to bury someone you don’t know, you know?”

Of course they died. Probably twenty years older than you, Fortuna is still far too young for them to have up and retired. Not that you never appreciated the danger you were putting yourself in when you agreed to wearing Tikki’s stones, but you’ve yet to feel _life-threatened._  

Hawkmoth, this one anyway, hasn’t killed anyone.

“Dunno why that is.”

Fortuna thinks the reason the adult Akuma do more damage is because their pain doesn’t have a single source, typically. Work, marital issues, money troubles, both the usual and unusual set backs and inadequacies that life brings… When everything is out to get someone, everything needs to go.

“Probably why the city is mostly collateral damage here, instead of being the intended target, like it was back home,” she guesses.

It’s glossed over rather quickly, and you think you and Chat are cowards for not asking more.

The previous Akuma killed people.

Maybe even the previous Ladybug.

Fortuna had assured you her visit was just that: a visit. She simply wanted a look at Parisian Hawkmoth’s work, to see if it warranted her leaving her life behind to come here and help. When she advises that she doesn’t think so, your feelings are mixed. So unconcerned, is this Hawkmoth that hurts your friends and ruins your days not a real threat? Never mind your attempts to shuck the sickening swell of pride that comes with the idea that Fortuna isn’t worried you’ll wind up like Beatriz.

You wonder if Chat Noir has asked his Kwami about his predecessor, immediate or otherwise.

Tikki says she’ll talk, but she looks so miserable you can’t bring yourself to pry.

**#**

In any case, when the birds fly south, so does Fortuna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What an off-kilter thought experiment this is! Total kaleidoscope of what-ifs twisting around to form a piece. This is what happens when a meteor shower of midnight thoughts pelts a love story.


	2. autum part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When we are tired, we are attacked by ideas we conquered long ago.”  
> ― Friedrich Nietzsche

**AUTUMN  
1/2 **

 

The leaves are yellow.

So is Queen Bee’s lipstick.

You are far more appreciative of this surprise Miraculous visit.

Largely because you and your kitty would probably have been BBQ’d otherwise.

Her Stinger, a crossbow that fires enlarged versions of its namesake, startles Wattz Amp Man into shooting wide and leaving Chat Noir the same amount of singed that he was when he hit the ground.

“Do your thing, girl!” she calls down, zipping around the air.

You don’t wait to be told twice.

One _Lucky Charm_ later (a bucket of all things) and the sky is white with _Miraculous Ladybug_. When the colour comes back to the world, Queen Bee is hovering gently over the pitch.

“Bye bye, pretty butterfly.”

The confused electrician is being led away by the stadium’s security, but you keep your eyes square on the woman as the purified butterfly flutters by. While she introduces herself as Chat drops down next to you, a smile splits wide across her dark face. _So many_ laugh lines suddenly appear, and you instantly know she is a good person.

Where your stones are grafted to earrings, hers are clearly set in a beautiful hair comb that is tucked into where her mask comes around her head.

She sees your stare, tapping the comb behind her ear. “When you get as old as me, you’re not gonna wanna take care of hair anymore neither, girl.”

Her dark, coiled hair is buzzed short, the beginnings of what you think is a beautiful fade disappearing into her wrap around mask. It’s nearly a cowl, dipping down to expose the back of her head and leaving her crown uncovered.

 _Hah_.

The mask’s top slopes towards the bridge of her nose, but the rest stretches down to hide her angled cheeks. The sides seem connected to the neck of her uniform, creating a triangle of skin from beneath her nose to her jawline. The mask is black, with a single strip of marigold cutting across her nose, from cheekbone to cheekbone, like a flash of glamrock.

That high collar her cowl melts into is also black and, where you and Chat are shiny in the sun, Queen’s entire body uniform is matte. The same shade of yellow from the mask appears as single stripes on her arms; both the middle and ring finger of each hand are bright and follow a straight line all the way up to the sides of her neck.

You assume the pants reach far down her legs, but you can’t tell with the boots in the way. They’re high-legged, coming to her upper thigh, and black and yellow alternate down the length of them in chunky stripes. Where you, Chat and Fortuna’s boots are flat for consistent ground combat, Queen’s have a pale, powder blue heel; you assume because she spends most of her time in aerial combat.

It’s the same blue as her the crossbow on her back, of her utility belt, of her _comb_ ; the stones may be a dark and regal yellow, but what they’re set in is less conpictious.

Queen tucks said-comb back into her mask behind her ear.

“Let’s get outta here, huh, babies?”

**#**

Your yo-yo sends you sailing around corners as Chat takes the rooftops. The hum, buzz, of her wings can be heard over the rush of air as she paces you.

Once gaining the privacy of a tall roof, you get a better look at the person beneath the uniform.

The sun highlights white strands daring to impose on the rest of her black hair. Her eyes are a brown so deep they’re nearly black, but are still big and warm. Dark in colour but light in presence, they remind you of your mom’s eyes.

She’s probably a mom, too, you surmise. Maybe even a grandmom; the lines on her face show a life of laughter and love, and a long one at that. Between the salt and pepper of her hair and her well worn smile, you guess mid-sixties. Her body suggests tens of years younger, but you’re fairly certain that’s her Kwami’s work.

“There a convention we should know about?” Chat quips, twirling his baton casually. “We didn’t get our invitations in the mail.”

“But other Miraculous have,” you add.

“Not at all, babies,” she says easily. Man, you hope your life sees as much joy as Queen’s smile suggests her’s has. “Caught the news that Fortuna Cavalo passed through; thought I’d see if something serious was up.”

**#**

It’s not too late, but Chat has to go. Some behind the mask commitments.

You promise to fill him on anything, and he advises you two to _bee_ -have while he’s gone before dropping off the side of the building.

At the end of your eye roll, you find Queen Bee looking bemused and amused.

“Takes all kinds,” she observes, something a little sad lacing her tone.

Your earrings beep.

**#**

The next the three of you meet is on a roof with a stair access cutting down the middle. Either side flash in the night, red and green neon in the dark.

Keeping quiet, you wait nervously on the other side of the wall from a detransformed Chat as Tikki flies around the corner to where Queen Bee waits out of sight of either of you.

“Hey, you two.”

Something in you aches at the forlorn tone.

“Hello, Queen Bee.”

“Beewax.”

You don’t recognize the nasally second voice; must be Chat Noir’s Kwami.

“C’mere, bugaboo.”

Your kitty’s choke of surprise at the shared nickname is unmistakable.

“You too, sour puss.”

“Tch.”

Queen Bee had asked to meet with the Kwami, and once home, Tikki had nearly pleaded with you to let her do so. You agreed, of course you did, but even so, you felt… _apprehensive_? They’re going to talk about Queen’s Ladybug, aren’t they? Her Chat Noir?

You always wanted to know before. After hearing even a mention of Beatriz, though… Now, not so much.

“As much as I missed you two, even this grumpy cat -”

“Hey!”

“- we gotta talk shop.”

“Of course,” Tikki’s voice is ever gentle, but so heavy. Why did she beg for this if she didn’t want to?

“Little _young_ , don’t’cha think?”

The silence from Chat’s hiding spot is as hard as yours, and you can picture him bristling. Like Fortuna, Queen points out your age like it matters. Maybe it would - if either of you were younger. You’re going to be sixteen soon, your silly kitty can’t be far behind, if he’s behind at all.

“We did our best,” is Tikki’s soft rebuff.

Queen clicks her tongue. 

“You’re tellin’ me, in Paris - _the City of Love_ \- you couldn’t find some adults with big enough hearts for the job?”

Chat Noir’s Kwami grumps, “Love and compassion are two different things.”

“Indeed,” Tikki interjects, ever the peacekeeper. “Love is selfish; compassion is selfless. My wielder is so very selfless.”

Your cheeks burn in the cool dark.

“The kid ain’t half bad, either.”

You stifle a giggle at the soft and offended, “hey,” that comes from the other side of the stairs.

“...Still…” Your smile falls at Tikki’s tone. “...I concede we were rather… pressed.”

... _what_?

“Beggars and choosers, Beewax,” the other Kwami comments gruffly. “We didn’t make our choices lightly, but it’s not like we’ve been on holiday; we had to make a move and quick.”

Queen gives a thoughtful sigh. “Well,” she drawls, “I suppose if it’d been a bad fit I wouldn’t have met them at all.”

“Of course not.”

“Darn straight.”

“To be honest," Tikki admits, "all the Miraculous candidates here are rather young for wielders.”

It’s official: you hate this conversation.

You always felt chosen. _Special._ You. Clumsy, silly, painfully average Mishap Marinette: a champion’s soul. Of course, there would be others, you’ve known that - heck, Chat Noir is right on the other side of the stairwell. To hear there is more than the two of you like that in Paris, though…

...It twists your stomach for some reason.

“But I assure you, Tatia, she is more than worthy. Her heart is the first I felt and the one I came back to.”

“Tikki made a good call.”

There’s a beat, and you know everyone is waiting for Chat Noir’s Kwami to boast for Chat.

Queen addresses it in a way that makes you hold your breath.

“Surprised you found someone after Sara.”

Oh no.

Your chest is tight.

Finally, the Kwami says, “Wielders come and go, just the way it is. She was top five, easy. Maybe if she were around longer, maybe the _best_. Maybe a lot of things.”

That burning, prickling sensation signalling tears begins to sting behind your eyes. You can be pretty full of yourself, but you never considered being _the Best_ Ladybug; for all his posturing, surely Chat hadn’t thought as much of himself, either.

But to actually _hear_ it…

_Oh, kitty..._

“But she _ain’t_ around anymore. And yeah, I looked in on a candidate or two, but you know what? Sara was somethin’ else - and the kid is somethin’ _special_. Just as special as Tikki’s kid.”

You can picture Tikki’s determined nod.

“Alright, alright.” Queen gives a breathy laugh, conceding. “You got yourself some winners. No harm in my buzzing around a bit?”

“This is their turf,” the Kwami chuffs.

Your guys’ call, it means.

“I’m down to clown.”

Chat’s answer is almost immediate. That...surprises you.

“All in,” you agree.

You’ll talk to him later, though you’re pretty sure you know what this is about.

“See ya later, babies,” Queen Bee calls. To the Kwamis, “I’ll catch you later, bugaboo, sour puss.”

The buzz of her wings is muted suddenly when she dives between buildings.

There’s only a brief pause.

“ _Spots on_!”

“ _Claws out_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone wonders, Tatia is pronounced tah-sha. Like how 'tion' makes an 'sh' sound.
> 
> Also, Wattz Amp Man is the most important thing I have ever written and will ever write, and I am sad I have peaked as a writer


	3. autumn part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”  
> ― Søren Kierkegaard

**AUTUMN  
2/2**

 

“Tell me about Sara?”

Chat makes it a question. You and Queen Bee sit on the side of a hotel, legs dangling over the edge, swaying in the persistent wind. Kitty Noir is perched on his haunches, balanced on the balls of his feet.

She snorts.

“He wouldn’t talk, huh?”

His hair swishes with a shake of his head.

It almost catches the light as well as your sweet Adrien’s.

“Not a meow.”

“Not a surprise.”

Her dark cheeks puff as she blows a long breath out slowly. Her eyes are cast up at the watermelon sky. When the sun dips a bit further, the clouds will turn sorbet. Yummy.

“Only if you wanna hear about Josie.”

Chat looks down his mask at you.

“Your Ladybug?” you ask shyly. For some reason, and you’ll theatrically scold yourself in the shower later, you just know it.

“Mhmm. One of ‘em.”

Like an ice cube, a cold, wet sensation slides down your spine.

You couldn’t walk away right now if you wanted to.

“Tell us.”

She talks about Josie, her first Ladybug. A little older than you, she guesses, but not by much. She was shy and had trouble asserting herself, which surprised Queen. Tatia. Her Kwami, Adaa, had told her all about Ladybug, and Josie didn’t seem to really fit the bill. You think about how you are out of the mask, and once again feel justified in keeping your identity unknown. How many people would think _you_ don’t ‘fit the bill’?

Anyway, Josie relied heavily on her big sister.

Sara.

Chat Noir.

Where Josie was mild and hung back a bit, Sara stood tall and eager. While your kitty tends to twirl his baton around, Sara favoured the two-piece form, pouncing into the fray and striking double-time. When Tatia came around, she knew right away Sara was the strategist, called all the shots. Not in a bossy way, though, Queen assures. Chat Noir’s job is to protect and assist Ladybug, and with Josie being both Ladybug and her little sister, the drive to protect was twofold for Sara.

The Miraculous give you wielders increased strength, speed and endurance. No exceptions. The ability and know-how to fight, too. Of course, it’s up to _you_ what you do with these abilities, but you’re all well-equipped to handle Akuma. If something goes sideways, that is almost exclusively user error, not equipment failure (not that you would ever blame Tikki anyway).

“Sara trained outside the suit, though.”

Apparently, she could do plenty of damage without magic. Liking the double-handed weapon approach, she enrolled herself in Arnis classes (Google later advised you this is another name for Eskrima which you watched several YouTube videos on because _holy crap_ ), and did regular cardio.

A real force to be reckoned with, it seems.

“Almost felt sorry for the Akuma that crossed _that_ black cat’s path,” Tatia chuckles.

Chat is quiet.

You try not to peek up at him _too_ often.

Sara went _hard_. Josie really couldn’t take care of herself, despite the power at her disposal, so Sara made it a point to shut down any threats so Josie could use _Lucky Charm_ safely.

“Not all of us liked that, of course,” Queen tilts her head towards you as she says so. “Bugagboo was always encouraging Josie to be more active; Adaa and I didn’t want to say it, but we thought maybe Tikki made the _wrong call_ ; an’ Foxy? Well, he -”

“ ‘Foxy’ ?” you and Chat echo.

“The Illusionist, and his Kwami, Trixx,” she explains. “His miraculous is a pendant.”

“We know,” both of you grumble.

You can’t see her eyebrows, but you get the impression she’s raising one them.

She doesn’t press. “Foxy was a bit rough with her. Him and BC were always butting heads.”

BC?

Oh.

 _Black Cat_.

Foxy had nothing personal against Josie, he was just leery about someone so undependable having the final say on any fight. Those were fighting words as far as Sara was concerned, and the team had a lot of internal strife.

“And then... somebody screwed up.”

She glosses over what lead to it, but eventually the four of them got overwhelmed. _Four Miraculous wielders lost a fight_.

What the heck _happened_?

Trixx was spent, and Foxy was forced to change back. Queen and Sara were on their countdown, too. Only Josie had any energy left, and they needed to keep her charged for _Lucky Charm_ and _Miraculous Ladybug_. No one had to be a genius to realize the best case scenario: only three were getting out. It was obvious who was staying behind.

“Josie was… upset, you understand.”

The sky is blood orange, the sharp red light highlighting the edges of your bodies. You can’t see it on your body, but you know it’s bright against your hair. Chat and Queen are glowing.

Sara used _Cataclysm_ to clear them a path before detransforming. Josie had been _beside_ herself, saying lots of things: about how she can try Lucky Charm, how Queen Bee can make a final push, how they can do _anything else_ but this.

You _cannot_ imagine.

Because if your kitty had to stay behind, you’d move Heaven and Earth to change it.

You finally look over at him. His head is turned towards you and Tatia, but his stare is above your heads. Some faraway scene that’s invisible to you plays out in his eyes, unfocused and muted. It’s unpleasant, whatever it is; you can see the hard clench of his jaw, that subtle tick at the corner of his mouth he has when he’s upset.

“Ol’ sour puss hung in the air. You could feel it, you know,” she sighs. “Some pride underneath that heavy, disapproving scowl. He only ever plays with folks who know the score.”

You try to see it in your head. _A flash of green, and Sara was in her fraying shorts and rocker tee. Tatia's comb chirpping. Chat's Kwami,_ though you haven't seen him yet, _sits in the air; he isn't going to try to change her mind._ That’s why you're chosen: because you have the heart and soul and will to do what’s right. No matter how hard that might be. _No matter how many little sister hearts they might break._

"He asked if she was sure. She said, 'You wouldn’t have picked me, if I wasn’t strong enough to do this.'

 _This Kwami is too old to linger on goodbyes,_ you figure. _He doesn't waste time outside of  a final look that was maybe half a moment longer than normal? Sara gives the ring a flick with her thumb, and Queen catches it. Some more green light and the Kwami is gone. There is plenty of debris on the ground, and Sara plucks up two recently freed pieces of rebar._  

"Told me, 'get it, girl'," Queen smirks, a strangely fond memory. "I pocketed the ring, and said later alligator. I like to think she said ‘in a while crocodile,’ but I was far away, so who knows.”

Despite being outdoors on a roof, in the evening of chilly October, the silence is stuffy and pregnant. The only reason it isn’t broken is because you have both your hands over your mouth to keep from...what? Gasping? Screaming? Laughing because you don’t know what else to do?

Whatever the cause, your shoulders begin to tremble and no one thinks it’s the cold. The weight of Chat’s hand comes down on your shoulder. He squeezes lightly, his claws scratching gently in reassurance, and you wish you were Marinette right now. Marinette could really go for a hug. In the mean time, though, you are Ladybug, and after patting his hand to let him know you’re alright, your game face is firmly back in place.

Josie cast _Lucky Charm_ and _Miraculous Ladybug_ , expecting the world to right itself. The ground, the buildings, the river, right side up. The dead stayed dead, though. Tikki will tell you later tonight there is no magic to bring someone back to life.

“Poor thing, you know, she was devastated. Beyond words.”

You’re an only child. You don’t know about Chat. But if something happened to your parents, or even Alya… The pit of your stomach is cold at the thought.

The next part makes you want to throw up, though.

“She couldn’t fight anymore. It’s a magical anomaly she wasn’t Akumatized in the end. It didn’t take long for Adaa and Trixx to tell Tiki to call it.” Her sideways glance catches your narrowed eyes, and she sighs. “Emotional compromise. Tikki disenchanted her.”

Both you and Chat suck in air harshly.

“They - I can’t believe - She just lost her sist - and they think they can -! _You_!”

You sputter over your words, so outraged you don’t know where to start. Queen Bee is in front of you though, and your accusing finger points at her.

“You _let_ them _do_ that?!”

The older woman shrugs. “Even if I didn’t agree, I was outvoted, girl. Not counting the Kwami, Foxy never thought she was a good fit anyway, and Josie herself wanted out.”

For some reason that makes you _more_ angry and you push yourself up, unable to sit anymore. Pacing feverently is a Marinette thing, so you try to keep it dialed back, but there is _no_ keeping still.

“She gave up the stones willingly.”

“That’s besides the point!” Your hands fly to your hips. You want to throttle something. “She needed you as _Josie_ , and you guys were only interested in _Ladybug_?!”

Maybe you’re projecting a little. One of the _many_ reasons you want your identity kept a secret is because it might actually kill you if someone knew both sides of your life and favoured Ladybug. If you suffered a life crippling blow like that, and Chat said ‘see you never’ if you couldn’t fight anymore, you’d…you’d…

Well, you’d probably kick his butt, but after that you would cease to be.

“What she _needed_ ,” Queen says pointedly but not harshly, “was _Sara_. And there wasn’t anybody that could give her that. Josie or Ladybug be danged.”

You “ugh!” in disgust. Maybe it’s because it’s only been a year, but you can’t see the situation that way. You can’t see yourself telling _anyone_ (not even Chloé!) to walk it off if a loved one died.

And you sure as heck can’t see yourself collapsing in defeat if something happened to _Chat_ . Voluntary or not, if he was taken from you _permanently_ , someone’s getting knocked to the moon and back. And that’s just your opening swing.

It’s probably because Queen Bee is a solitary Miraculous, but you can tell that while she may have felt a deep camaraderie with her crew, she never felt the connection a Chat Noir and a Ladybug share. He destroys, you create. Halves, wholes, Ying, Yang, the whole nine yards.  _Of course_ it would be a serious blow to lose him, and no doubt whoever came next would never, _could_ never live up to his legacy. But you’d still _do_ it. There’s still a _world_ to save.

Finally,  _finally_  Chat says something. “Maybe it’s best Josie retired.” You don’t like the soft smile across his lips, nor can you place the weird emotion on his face.

“I would expect _my_ Ladybug to continue on.” The dying light leaves a lavender that is quickly turning blue along the outline of his hair and mask. “She’s real determined like that. Always looking forward, facing the future. As long as I know she’ll never look back, whatever happens, I can rest in peace.”

Your mouth would be gaping open if your teeth weren’t clenched.

“I can’t think of any other kind of person being Ladybug, other than my miraculous Lady.”

You’ll kill him yourself.

**#**

You don’t see Queen Bee for a few days after that.

That’s fine. You’re still so wound up and frustrated, and with no idea of whom to direct your anger at. Queen for being a part of a situation that went so bad? This Foxy for feeding the sickness? Josie for giving up on herself? Tikki for _letting_ Josie give up on herself?

 _Sara_?

In a not unheard of but still uncommon turn of events, Chat Noir visits _Marinette_ on the third day you’ve refused to transform in favour of grumping in your room.

“Purr-rincess~”

Be cool. Remember, _Marinette_ has no reason to be mad at him.

“This is why people don’t feed strays,” you loudly whisper up at him, shaking the box of crackers you were eating while splayed out on your balcony.

He hops from the stone shingles to the railing in picture perfect balance. Your grouchy-ness is thinly veiled, though, and his lips dip into a curious frown as he perches.

“You can’t be _that_ against strays,” he comments carefully.

In an attempt to distract him, you turn away from the city, searching your floor for anything of interest. Ever helpful whether he knows it or not, he notices the sketch pad waiting for you. One of many. Some are closed, but several are flipped open to anywhere, pencil lines and marker streaks dragged around in moments of inspiration, wonder or straight boredom.

You do this when you struggle with designs or assignments or in general. Hoping something that struck you in a moment before will come around again. No luck so far (this coat isn’t going to pattern itself, geez), but the deliberate chaos pays off as Chat flicks his big eyes from page to page. The papers flutter slightly, as the cooling Parisian breeze makes the evening rounds. It paints a scene better than you can, and for a moment your confused inner-turmoil is just as subdued as your partner.

 _Marinette_ has no reason to find comfort in a ‘stranger’s’ silence, so you clear your throat.

It breaks the spell. It was nice while it lasted.

“I’m not getting kidnapped, am I?” you ask lightly. “ ‘Cause as you can see here, I have homework, so.”

The grin he cracks doesn’t reach those wide eyes, but there’s a lot of teeth, so that can be good enough.

“No royal acquisition today.” But he winks. “Do you need distress before I can see the damsel?”

 _Damsel_.

How dare.

“I wouldn’t know,” you chuff. “Go ask a girl who’s stepped in it all the time.”

He pulls a face at that, but doesn’t share his thoughts. You don’t have anything to base this on, but you feel strongly you’re both thinking of Chloé. The breeze rolls by again. This time it might as well come with a tumbleweed for how dead the conversation is. Just when you’re about to pull your pigtails (or his tail, you can’t decide), he breaks the silence.

“Your reporter friend.”

Your eyebrows shoot up behind your bangs.

_Oh no!_

“Alya?!” The sudden worry you feel throws her name out of your mouth, and Chat is quick to reassure you.

“She’s fine, Marinette!” he insists, hands up, palms flat. His shoulders that have grown more board over this last year are shrugged sheepishly.

Realizing he’s scared you for no reason, your relief warps to pointy annoyance. You shouldn’t be this mad, but all you’ve done for three days is stuff too many feelings into a box.

And Chat just cracked the lid.

“My bad.”

You can’t decide if he’s the worst best guy.

“ _What about her_.”

Or the best worst guy.

“Just, uh…” and it’s that kind of noise he makes when he realizes his thought is going to sound dumb out loud. “...wondering if she’s seen my Lady around at all.”

Well.

This is unexpected. The longest you’ve ever been out of uniform is just over a week, and if Chat needs you, he calls. Your communicator has been silent, both in your purse and under your pillow. So, what gives? You take the opportunity before you realize you shouldn’t.

“Is she with that bee woman?”

You’ve figured Chat and Tatia have at least talked at some point while you’ve been fuming. Sure, you want to know what about. You should grow up, suit up, and just ask.  _Not_ try to low-key sleuth on your partner.

All your softballed questions are deflected by atrocious bee puns, and Chat bids you adieu with a request to check in with Alya.

Your suspicions that you are one of the worst people on the planet are confirmed when you climb down into your room where a clearly disappointed Tikki has already gone to bed.

With her back to you.

On the other pillow.

You have always suffered guilt with every fiber of your being, and Tikki is the forgiving sort. You’ve made up by lunch the next day. You’re so wrapped up in relief you aren’t horrifically crushed when your sweet Adrien seems more interested in Alya’s latest hero gossip than returning your meek greeting without more than an upward nod.

**#**

The frost hits unusually early, and Tatia is on her way back to the United States.

“The buzz is that bees hibernate.”

You give him a long, sideways look. Tatia hasn’t been here long enough to be tired of his antics and laughs.

“That, too. Any excuse to hit South Florida is good enough for me, though.”

This is such a friendly moment. A casual patrol before parting. Like Fortuna, Tatia sees no reason to overstay her welcome. She hung around long enough to make sure you two have your wits about you, and is abundantly satisfied.

Again, your feelings are mixed. You reject the ideas of comparison between you and the previous Ladybugs with all that you have, but _some_ kind of conclusion must be drawn, right?  Is it safe for these long-standing Miraculous wielders to leave because you and Chat are just that good? Or is it that somehow this Hawkmoth isn’t that _bad_?

What’s a better answer?

“Don’t overthink it,” Tatia advises. “Whoever is behind the Akuma in Paris, they’re not a complete monster. That happens sometimes.” Tikki will confirm. “You’re in the suit; you already stand amongst the greats. Be gracious if neither of you ever have to prove it.”

Which is a good and sensible comment, but you think of meek and heartbroken Josie, and can’t help but wonder if the suit isn't enough of a qualifier.

You all are breezing past frosty rooftops on patrol one last time. Because you and your kitty are so in sync, he continues your thought without your saying a word.

“You never told us about who came next.”

The timeline as it stands to you is: Josie, her successor, Beatriz, and now you. It seemed to you Josie’s career was depressingly short, the next surprisingly long, Beatriz’ simply depressing, and you’re still on active duty. What of those is the most normal for a Ladybug? How many of them lost their Chat Noirs?

For once, mentioning those who came before doesn’t darken Tatia’s face.

“The dead don't have a say in who's talking about them,” she says, her tone and eyes bittersweet. “The _living_ don’t like gossip as much.”

Both you and Chat are lost and found in the same amount of time.

He stumbles in his realization, “Wait -” and comically slams into a section of raised roof, “Guh!”

“Does that mean -” Your hand jerks as the truth hits you - causing your yo-yo to snap back and hit you, too. “Ow! Really?!”

She smiles that smile, the first one she ever flashed you, the one that showed her age but made her look young all at the same time.

“I was saving it for the end of the night, but yes: they’re still alive.”

As you rub furiously at the new lump and Chat tries to catch the breath that he knocked out of himself, both your grins are silly and stupid and big.

**#**

The sun might as well fall right out of the sky for how little attention you pay to the time.

Tatia tells you how her second LB (Tiffany) and BC (Kyle) subscribed to Sara’s line of thinking, determined to be capable and cunning out of uniform. How the reformed foursome decided they were through reacting, and dedicated all of their free time to locating Hawkmouth.

It paid off.

Within only a few years, the woman behind the toxic _papillons_ was unearthed.

“Miserable _witch_ ,” Tatia sighs, the words wrapped in white breath.

They had to chase her down, and there was no hugging it out. While Queen seemed intent to spare the details, it sounds to you that her brooch had to be physically removed from her body. You wonder if they pried it from dead fingers. You wonder why the idea doesn’t bother you more.

“We made sure the brooch got back to the Master. How Nooroo keeps winding up in the wrong hands, I don’t know.”

 _Nooroo_.

**#**

You and Chat have fallen back into your two-man routine by the time the first snow hits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is taking on a vague, oddball feel of A Christmas Story for me. Past insisting on interacting with the present interacting to show hindsight, and let whatever comes from that encourage the future. Flashes of might've beens and could bes.


	4. winter part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The past is never dead. It's not even past.”  
> ― William Faulkner

**WINTER  
1/2**

Tatia’s final story has had a serious effect on you two.

Of course both of you agreed to becoming Miraculous wielders for different reasons, but you’ve stayed in this because it’s the right thing to do. Fight the good fight.

Only it seemed more like a war, and an endless one at that. People will always wind up hurting; no one is happy all the time. At any given moment, countless someones are lonely, frightened, angry, every kind of heartbroken. The are millions of tragic flowers for poisonous butterflies to land on.

They _retired_ , though! There was (relatively recently!) a Ladybug and Chat Noir that took away the power to _make_ those bad butterflies, and stopped Akuma production. So sure they won, that their fight was through, they parted with their Miraculous. Tatia kept hers because she’d been in the fight too long to bow out, but she believes Foxy also sent Trixx back to the master. Which is good and bad news: the real pendant is likely closer to you and Chat, but that’s about all you can bet on.

You never really put much thought into it because this is still relatively new, but what daydreams of a distant Ladybug you _have_ had involved you handing the earrings and Tikki to a worthy, younger soul. Chat wants to be buried in the suit, you’re sure.

But now… Now! There’s this real idea of victory, of stopping Hawkmouth. Especially since Paris’ Hawkmoth seems intent to stay in Paris, is focused more on you and Chat than chaos, and isn’t (currently) homicidal. It’s all become very doable, and it’s really lit a fire under your guys’ butts to get this handled.

Chat, to be a champion.

You, to salvage your grades.

Of course, the only way out is in. If you’re really going to throw yourself into this, that means neglecting more things in favour of the search.

Can you really afford that?

“I guess you can always work at your parents’ place,” Alya offers dryly, your latest test scores lowering your circle of friends’ average.

Your forehead is flat against the desk.

“Wedding cakes instead of wedding dresses,” Nino chimes in.

You grumble, “Kill me.”

They laugh.

Your sweet Adrien is absent for work obligations.

**#**

You think about Nooroo a lot.

Tikki swears he’s not a bad force, but his gift is the most easily twisted into something negative. You would have guessed Chat’s _Cataclysm_ made for a better candidate, but since Chat Noir is tied to Ladybug, their powers act as a kind of check and balance.

Nooroo is pure creation: powers and abilities taking shape based on emotion. Like any painter putting their feelings to a canvas, the result is a reflection of the heart.

“Hearts aren’t always warm,” Tikki advises sadly.

Apparently Chat’s Kwami gave similar insight.

 _“He said Nooroo is exactly why Kwami are supposed to search for compassionate wielders.”_ Chat’s voice is bit metallic through the communicator. _“He thinks love is one of the worst qualities to focus on, in terms of granting power, because people focused on love miss the big picture. Which I don’t believe for a second, my Lady,”_ he adds quickly. _“I’m all about love_ and _saving the world.”_

“What a modern hero.”

 _“Available for weddings. Particularly_ ours _.”_

You roll your eyes, not that he can see it.

**#**

When Félix is introduced to the class, you feel like a bag of sand.

A bag of sand that someone has cut straight across, and all of you is falling out.

Ms Mendeleiev gives a clipped explanation about some of the other classrooms having their heating system shot, so the students are being relocated for the remainder of the season. The heat will have to be turned off to repair the vents, and the school won’t have it. Did Chloé and her dad have something to do with that, you wonder.

Still, it’s not all bad.

Your class _does_ get Félix.

The first week of December looks good on the resigned young man. His skin and hair are pale, but from the even skin tone and lack of highlights, he probably doesn’t look much different when there are leaves on the trees.

His dress shirt is a lighter grey, and has the sleeves left long and cuffs buttoned; a darker grey (and fitted, your seamstress eyes note) vest has a matching tie tucked into it. His belt leather is a perfect match to his black pants, and the fashion designer in you both loves and loathes this monochrome look.

The only dash of colour to him is his eyes, though you wonder how many people would notice on the first pass. They’re hazel, but definitely on the green side; you think it’d show more if this ensemble wasn’t muting them.

Your sweet Adrien’s bright eyes and warm smile make you feel floaty and loopy. He’s _pure sunshine_ , with his tan-hidden freckles and gold hair, and the way he wears his clothing so casually and, and -

\- and Félix doesn’t give that impress _at all_. The days reveal he doesn’t seem to believe in much outside of greyscale, and his shirts are always iron pressed, and if you can’t see those shirts beneath a black pullover, you notice the pullover is spotless, not a strand of hair or piece of lint to be seen.

Even his winter boots are clean, what is _with_ this guy?

While the topic is here, what’s with _you_?

Where your affections for Adrien tend to leave your tongue heavy in your mouth, every idiot thing that ever came to mind since you were twelve spills out in front of Félix, like your thoughts left the sink running. Your whispered greetings to Adrien get blasted out of the air by a loud ‘hello’ to your guys’ temporary classmate.

Félix glares at you like you’re a moron.

He’s not wrong.

What’s worse is that the entire group has noticed your behaviour. Nino continues to marvel and fear at female whimsy, but you want to _die_ every time you catch Adrien watching him with a guarded stare.

You’re such a buffoon, you’re making your sweet Adrien wary of an admittedly abrasive but mostly normal kid.

**#**

Félix  _started out_ pretty neutral to your classmates.

You make the first bad impression.

One of many.

Since he’s joined your class, you have, in no particular order:

-Knocked Nathaniel’s hand holding a marker into Félix’s shirt.

-Spilled Rose’s perfume onto Félix’s literature book.

-Tried to throw Kim a chalk eraser but nailed Félix at the side of his head.

-Threw open the courtyard door to make way for Alix, knocking Félix to the pavement.

-Got into an argument with Sabrina, yanked your box of pastries out of her hand, and whack Félix in the face with it.

And oh no, you’ve run out of fingers on one hand.

Heck of a first week, huh?

At home, you complain to Tikki about feeling a ‘humming’ inside you when you see him.

At school, Alya laughs at you.

“Girl, you are _all_ messed up.”

Your groan echoes in your locker, where your head is currently tucked in. “If I close the door hard enough, will it end my misery?”

“Doubt it.”

“Let’s put our backs into it.”

Alya’s sympathy can be heard through her giggle and felt through the gentle tap on your shoulder.

“I don’t get it,” you sigh. Giving up on the hope your locker will swallow you up (maybe some other day), you begin to actually gather things for class. “Adrien says _one_ nice thing to me, I crush so hard I literally can’t walk sometimes. And…”

“...And Félix pretty much _orders_ you to get away from him, and then he’s all you talk about the rest of the day.”

You lean back far enough for Alya to see the glare from one of your eyes around the door. She isn’t afraid.

It’s times like this, you kinda, maybe, sorta want an Akuma to attack? Something sudden that’ll free Marinette from being a lame-o for half an hour and let Ladybug kick butt.

Weirdly, Akuma activity has plummeted with the temperature. You can’t imagine Hawkmoth believes in winter vacations, but the more cynical part of you thinks he’s charging up for the holidays. That’s a hard time of year for a _lot_ of people.

Even Chat, on the rare snowy patrol, seems preoccupied and low energy.

You should probably be charging up, too, instead of thinking about jerkface boys with high cheekbones and a hatred for rainbows.

Your locker is closed perhaps more harshly than necessary, and you spend all of math filling your sketchbook with brightly coloured shirts.

**#**

During the day, you step backwards too far and smack the bookshelf behind you.

A frustrated cry comes from the other side, and when you turn around and peek over the books that _didn’t_ get shoved out the other way, you are not surprised to find an _especially_ annoyed Félix. He looks like he’s ready to throw each book on the floor at you.

Your sputtered apology is drowned out by Chloé and Sabrina’s laughter from down the aisle, but even if you’d been alone, it wouldn’t have mattered.

“You are a _jinx_!” he seethes, stomping out of the library.

“What is _wrong_ with you, Marinette?” Chloé asks from behind her manicured hand. “I think France needs to raise its threat level.”

During that evening, you hold your big cat pillow over your face and scream into it.

Tikki hovers.

“Marinette…”

“What the heck!” you shout, lifting the pillow straight up. “When I was living as Mishap Marinette, and was just ruining my own day, that was fine! Sort of! Not really!” The pillow is dropped back on your face unceremoniously. Your voice is muffled beneath the fuzzy cat. “But it was only _my_ problem!”

“Marinette.”

“But, _no_! Crime grinds to a halt, I get less time as Ladybug, and then, like, what? My loser roots start showing again? What gives?”

Your whining becomes just noise.

“Mari -”

“I mean, this guy is probably more concerned with weathering _Hurricane Marinette_ than his school work, which is especially crazy because when was the last hurricane France even got?! This is a public college, not Battle Royale!”

“Marinette, listen!”

You think you’d rather wallow some more, but you flop over onto your stomach. Crossing your arms beneath your head, your big cat pillow still sits on you. You look at Tikki with one eye.

Despite wanting your attention, Tikki seems to hesitate before nodding to herself.

“Listen to me, Marinette. The reason things seem to go especially and immediately bad around that student…”  _What_ a poetic way to put it. “...is because he’s a Miraculous candidate.”

You know each word Tikki says, but for a moment, you don’t understand them in that order. You slowly lift your head, your big cat pillow shifting backwards towards your bed.

“I’m sorry?”

“He’s a Miraculous candidate,” she repeats. “He has the potential to wield our power. Your natural luck fluxes around him because the stones are reacting to him. That ‘humming’ feeling you described to me? It’s coming from the stones, coming from me. The Miraculous is drawn to him but returns to you, its wielder, then is drawn to him again. The luck starts to loop, but every time it comes around, the connection weakens.

“Think of a fraying string,” Tikki explains. “It pulls and pulls, and then it snaps. But because in the end, _you_ are the one with the Miraculous, it’ll always snap back _against_ him.”

You need a moment to process that. You sit up, swinging your legs over the side of your unmade bed. As your eyes drift around the room, not focusing on anything, you ask, “You’ve known since I saw him?”

Tikki looks guilty. “Not right away, but I didn’t remember the resonation being quite so awful. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Marinette.”

“It’s alright.” Your response is made on auto-pilot, though. Your inherent luck was whacky before, but nothing like what Félix is being put through. “Weird to think of a _guy Ladybug_ , though.”

“Oh no, Marinette,” and Tikki lowers herself into your waiting hands. “The Ladybug Miraculous wouldn’t react like this if he was a candidate for  _it_. Both of your luck would, mm…” She thinks a moment. “Nullify.

“Because your power is _interacting_ with his instead of bouncing off, his inherent skill isn’t luck, but jinx.”

“But _I’m_ the jinx,” you remind her gently, remembering the library earlier. Or, at least you’re coming across as one for him.

Tikki hops up to nuzzle your cheek. “Only because of the loop, remember? And there’s only a loop because your Miraculous is reaching out.”

You scrunch your nose, feeling like you understand, but also feeling like you don’t.

“Why would Miraculous Ladybug reach out to someone that can’t wear it?”

Back in your palms, Tikki giggles up at you.

“Oh, Marinette. If his latent skill is _jinx_ , Félix would be a candidate for _Miraculous Cat_.”

Wait.

What.

_What!?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the rate these are increasing in length, Spring will be its own novel


	5. winter part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “My past is everything I failed to be.”  
> ― Fernando Pessoa

**WINTER  
2/2**

 

You cannot imagine.

You just can’t. As your kitty leans on his pole with one hand and twirls around his tail with the other, you truly don’t know how you could work with anyone else. Sure, you had that self-righteous moment a few months ago, about how if you ever lost Chat you’d keep going.

That by no means means you _want_ to.

“You ever think about the people we beat out for this gig?”

Sleigh Belle (an overworked, underpaid retail worker, and you don’t know how you haven’t seen more of her type this holiday season) has been bested between you, Chat, and a _Lucky Charm_ polka-dotted bird cage. You two stand away from the press and crowd, the steepled roofs of Bercy Village giving a view of the apprehension without paparazzi getting a view of you guys.

Everyone shops at this mall, but it’d been evacuated when Sleigh Belle attacked. It’ll be easy to disappear and transform back to your civilian self, pretend you hid in a bathroom or something.

Still, even though both your Miraculous chirp with four minutes remaining, neither of you make to part yet. The twilight creates a periwinkle sky, the fogged glass lamps casting an orange glow against the buildings and brick paths. The snow is fresh and powdery; the whole scene is soft, even though it’s cold.

Even growing up in Paris, it still manages to take your breath away.

“The candidates?” you clarify. Like you don’t know.

He nods, “Yup,” his lips popping on the ‘p’.

Every night since Tikki told you about Félix. You can’t say that, though, so you give a noncommittal shrug.

“There are lots of good people in Paris. Lots of good people anywhere,” you say. Three minutes left, but you turn to look at the side of his head. It feels like he needs you to say more.

“I dunno what makes a candidate a wielder,” you tell him honestly. Why Mishap Marinette and why not anyone else Tikki felt connected to? That’s for the Kwami to know, and the rest of you to go along with. “I just know we are.”

“Yeah, but what if we weren’t the first round picks?”

You blink at him, surprised.

“What if someone passed all this up, and _we’re_ the next best thing?”

“Impossible.”

Nearly two minutes to go, you _really_ need to bounce out of here. Instead of hopping down to the maintenance path, you turn him towards you by his shoulders, make him look at you.

It’s not an action he’s expecting, but there’s a pleased flash of recognition from the contact and the closeness.

“I turned down the stones at first,” you confess. His lips part in surprise. “My Kwami wouldn’t let me, and here I am. If your Kwami _did_ let someone pass on this, they couldn’t have wanted them that much anyway.”

You believe that.

With all your heart.

So much.

One minute left, and you two make like banana peels and split. Though you can hear his excited ‘yahoo!’ from around the corner and down the maintenance shaft, and smile to yourself.

**#**

Now that you’re aware the weird feelings you have around Félix are Ladybug related, you have found them easier to manage. It’s still sudden, and sometimes they still get the drop on you, but at the very least, you’ve stopped descending upon him like a pox.

You get caught staring a lot more, though.

“Just sneak a picture like a regular stalker,” Chloé jeers. “Commission your paparazzi friend.”

With all the talk of Miraculous candidates this year, and Chat’s concerns over not being a first round draft pick, you can’t help but wonder if Félix is someone who turned down Chat’s Kwami.

He definitely doesn’t seem like the ‘rise to glory’ type.

But neither do you, at first blush.

**#**

Your poor Papa has a cold, so you’re manning the front desk while your mother breaks down the kitchen for the night, when Félix walks into the bakery.

He freezes when he sees you behind the counter, and you feel yourself shrink sheepishly. He seems to seriously consider the idea of leaving, but decides against it, coming up to the counter in irritation.

“Please don’t poison me,” is his greeting.

Your lips quirk down and your eyebrows arch up. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t baking today.”

You’re more Ladybug than Marinette around him these days. You feel a weird superiority in his ‘only’ being a candidate. You really need to check yourself before you wreck yourself.

He regards you for a moment, before surveying what’s still available in the evening. The bakery tends to get cleared out in the after work rush, but there’s always a something or two there for the latecomers.

"You recommend anything?" he asks, still staring into the display case.

"My mom can knock out a great strudel pretty quick."

He's surprised, arching his eyebrows. "Your mom works here, too?"

"And my dad," you smile. "We own this place. Live up stairs, too."

You call back to Mama for a strudel, and you turn back to him watching you. That pensive cat-eye stare again, and you feel terrible imagining it surrounded by black.

Well.

More black than he already wears.

“You haven’t been a clamoring plague lately,” he comments after a moment.

You flush and bristle. Punk. “You’re welcome.”

"I shouldn't _have_ to be grateful."

Geez. You feel bad for the trouble you caused him, but he’s so unpleasant anyway. If he really did turn down being Chat Noir, all the better, you nod to yourself.

“Whatever,” he sighs as Mama comes out of the back.

“Here we are,” she says gently, the steaming and puffy pastry surrounded by coloured paper. “Please enjoy, on the house.”

You both look at her.

“Ma’am, I don’t mind -”

“Nonsense!” your Mama insists, smiling between both of you. “A gift, to a new face.”

Almost uncomfortably, Félix takes the strudel. He holds it like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and the lavender paper is striking in his pale hand, against his black coat.

He mumbles his thanks and goodnight, and you spend the night drawing black menswear with purple accents.

**#**

You get guilted into working most of the holiday break.

Thankfully, your friends come to visit you.

Confusingly, so does Félix.

Nearly every morning when you open, he’s the first customer. To the surprise of no one, he takes his coffee black and sits at one of the only indoor tables. Laptop open and headphones in, he kills a huge chunk of the day working on the break’s homework.

He’s rude and sarcastic, and critical of anything he knows _you_ made, but he still pushes the chair across from him out when your parents send you on break.

You can’t always take the seat (Alya or Akuma take priority), but usually if you can, you do.

That insistence on socializing catches up with you, though. After Adrien's terrifying Christmas disappearing act, and Kim's New Year's party, you've realized you haven't done a bit of the break's assignments.

You tell Félix as much Janurary second, when he pushes the chair out again.

He stares for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. “You need help?”

You snort. “I thought I was _helpless_.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m offering: you need it. Or do you enjoy being hopeless, too?”

“Ugh!”

Still, he winds up at your kitchen table the next night. His notes are crisp and clear (and in black ink, of course), and you expect that if you can manage to stick your nose to the grindstone, you’ll actually be done before the first day back. Your parents start bringing up the aprons and baking towels to wash, so you pull him up to your room to get out of the way.

Which leaves you internally screaming when you remember your, uh, _décor_.

He one-thousand percent notices every piece of fan paraphernalia you have of your sweet Adrien, and you just friggin’ _know_ he’s dragging out the silence just to torture you.

“...Nice cat pillow.”

“ _Like you care_!”

He turns to look at you then. You and your scarlet, sweat dropped face.

“Why, Marinette,” and it’s almost a purr, “What else is there to notice?”

You’d probably shout obscenities if your mouth wasn’t so dry.

You shove him towards the step ladder, and though confused, he heads up to your balcony. It’s dark out, but the pavement below is lit, circles of snow on display beneath the street lamps. The balcony itself is yellow-orange; a string of star-shaped lights are hung along the outer wall.

“You draw out here?” he asks.

Over the days he’s spent at the bakery, the two of you traded information. Your love of fashion mostly, and you’re embarrassingly pleased Félix calls your sketchbooks ‘more than satisfactory’. It’s a sub par compliment from anyone else, but the fact that he had to give it means he finds the drawings without enough flaws to comment on.

Heck yeah.

You cup your hands and breathe on them, pretending they need heat to hide your flushing cheeks.

“Yeah.”

“...It’s nice.”

And you guys just watch the cars for a while.

Eventually, Papa shouts up an all clear, and you let him go first into the alcove with the trap door. Before you enter, you reach out to click the lights off.

As your turn and pull your hand back in, you find Félix hasn’t gone down yet. You both are just there, in the dark. Your bodies outlined by the lamp you always leave on for Tiki in your room, and the light pollution from the street lamps below the balcony.

Your hand is still on the door frame, and Félix places his just above yours. When he dips his head down, your inaudible gasp is one of anticipation.

He leans straight past your head to whisper, “Your earrings are pretty miraculous.”

You’re stunned frozen for a moment.

But quickly recover and thunder down the step ladder after him.

Too quickly.

You tackle him to the floor, with a conjoined ‘oof!’

Whoops.

“ _Marinette_ ,” he growls.

“That," you grumble, lifting yourself up, "was an accident." But, at least you have him pinned. “What did you mean?”

He’s starting to turn pink.

 _Good_.

“What?” he blusters. His hands hover in the air, unsure of where he can place them, with you straddling his waist. What a gentleman. “That I like you earrings?”

“You’re too smart to play dumb,” you say, in a very Ladybug tone. “You find them _miraculous_.”

He grimaces in thought, clearly deciding whether or not he wants to lie. Even uncomfortable and blushing, that cat-eye stare is unrelenting.

“I do.”

“So you admit it?” you ask. When he says nothing, you take him by his collar, your other hand forming a fist for emphasis. “ _Do you_?”

Still, he says nothing, hands no longer in the air, but pushing himself up so you can’t choke him by his shirt. You’re really rolling the dice here. It may have been a coincidence, but if he truly didn’t know what you’re asking about, he wouldn’t be pleading the fifth.

He knows. He knows, and you only have one guess as to how.

Finally, when he still won't give it up, you decide to push your luck further. You break the silence with, “Chat Noir?” 

Chat Noir has helped Marinette before, you have a safety net to fall back into if this looks like it'll blow up in your face. You know it's not possible he's Chat, but you're depressingly confident it nearly was. Between this and Chat's concerns over being 'second best', you have fairly good idea of who you're shaking by his collar.

Félix’s whole body relaxes with a sigh. You’re almost worried for a second that your hold is too tight when his eyes close. Then you are definitely worried when he opens them. That sharp gaze has softened, his face split into an awkward, unused, and an incredibly sad smile.

“No,” he tells you, a tremor to his voice that rattles your chest. “I told Plagg 'no'.”

You knew it. He must have cobbled together whatever the Kwami (Plagg?) told him with your disappearing acts and strange luck. If you’ve lived your whole life where you innate ability made everyone around you luckier, then the people in his life have likely seemed more _unlucky_ than him. Meeting you and having the whole thing flipped, stacked on top of whatever Plagg managed to teach him before Félix back out, must have made you obvious.

You can’t say for sure when he put it together, but he’s been sitting on the truth since he’s done it. He never came to you, never tried to blackmail you, or sold you out Nadja, Alya or anyone else desperate to know such a thing. If you hadn’t been such a dork about your homework, the opportunity for him to let you know tonight wouldn’t have even presented itself. Maybe if he were ever going to tell anyone, it would _only_ be you, whispered in the dark.

You can’t explain any of that. The thoughts hardly make any sense in your head, it would just be a rambling, nonsensical word vomit if you tried to share them. He’d just say ‘whatever’ and look past your head.

So instead, your overwhelmed teen self kisses him.

Neither of you have ever kissed anyone like this before (there’s a lot more to this than the Wake Up Kiss you gave Chat), and it shows with the bumping of noses and constant shifting of hand placement, but you keep at it. Your gratitude is leaving you both breathless.

Thanking him for not telling a soul; for confiding in Marinette and not Ladybug; for giving you something you can’t name and don’t know what to do with yet.

Most of all, though, most terribly of all, you’re thanking him for not believing in himself. For believing he's secretly weak and probably foolish - less like you and more like _Josie_. Maybe Sara would have lived, if Josie could have admitted to herself sooner she was no good for the stones.

Maybe this black-clad shrinking violet saved your life by giving up before he ever began, and letting your silly kitty be the Chat Noir you need.

Be the rising star he _is_.

By the time you two are through, his appearance is no longer immaculate, your lip gloss is across both your mouths, and you lost a hair tie somewhere along the way. Neither of you really knew when to breathe, and sit with your backs against your bed, trying to catch your breath.

“Honey!” Papa calls up. “Is your friend still here?”

**#**

You smuggled a disheveled Félix out hours ago.

Tikki pats your head as you groan in treachery and betrayal.

Your first make out session.

In front of tens of pairs of your sweet Adrien’s eyes.

How did you let this happen?

You couldn't have imagined.

**#**

The school maintenance crew manages to repair the heaters over the break. All the displaced students return to their classrooms as winter fades.

Félix disappears with the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you have two people in a love square, and then tape someone new to the side, does that make it a pentagon, or


	6. spring part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Your past is always your past. Even if you forget it, it remembers you.”  
> ― Sarah Dessen

**SPRING  
1/4**

 

You struggle during the wet season to tell your Kitty Noir about Félix.

Well, you’re struggling to tell anyone about what happened between him and _Marinette_ . But now _Ladybug_ knows the name of Chat’s Kwami, and that isn’t fair. Tikki wants you to confess, encourages you to share her name with him.

You just _can’t_ , though. Chat has had to help Marinette, visits Marinette. What if he hears you ‘say’ Tikki? It’ll blow your cover in a heartbeat, and all your hard work would be for nothing, and Chat would want to tell you who he is and you don’t want to know, and -

“You didn’t mind Félix knowing,” Tikki chides gently as you angrily brush your post-shower hair.

“Of course I _mind_!” you complain. “But he already figured it out.”

“He only suspected.”

“He _definitely_ knew!”

“Don’t you see, Marinette?” You watch in the mirror as Tikki swoops down to touch your cheek. “Of course you must be careful, but you _can_ trust Chat Noir with both of your names.”

You disagree, miserably.

“Why?” she asks. “Isn’t this proof that Plagg only reveals himself to true secret keepers?”

“Félix rejected Plagg’s Miraculous,” you try to reason. “Of course he’s going to bury my identity. Being a Miraculous candidate doesn’t automatically make you a saint. Look at Hawkmouth.”

Look at you.

“That fact that we both know who’s behind Ladybug’s mask makes it both our secret. How can I confess to Chat Noir without giving away my source?”

That’s the most glaring reason you haven’t told Chat yet:

You’d have to tell him _how_ you got the info.

Maybe you could come up with something about Tikki letting it slip, or reading about it in the book, but _come on_. You respect Chat way too much to try to hoodwink him over his own Kwami, and you wouldn’t want to throw Tikki under the bus just to save face. Besides, Plagg might tell him it’s a bunch of bull anyway, and great; then you’ve tee’d off two people.

How the heck are you supposed to tell him you met another Miraculous Cat candidate that dropped Plagg’s name? There’s no easy explanation for that, and thanks but you’ll die before you release the circumstances of that conversation.

Chat is a resilient hero, but he strikes you as a sensitive person. He's already expressed to you doubts and concerns about other the candidates. It's obvious that that revelation has been deflating for him, and he's still licking his wounds. You don't want to shake his faith anymore by telling him you know someone who really _did_ pass on the Miraculous. Not to mention the fallout if he found out about the kiss. 

You might find his crush exhausting, but you do believe it to be genuine. No part of being a heart breaker appeals to you. Besides, your relationship is built on a lot of trust, and there's no way he won't feel betrayed that 'his Lady' made out with a predecessor. Nope. Uh-uh. That can't possibly end well. 

This is why you lie all the time: what the heck else can you do?

You heave a deep sigh, and Tikki pats your cheek again.

**#**

The trees are budding.

“Blossoms aren’t the only thing in bloom, my Lady.”

The two of you have paused the patrol. Just a little breather with a view. Even when you make it as a big fashion designer and travel the world for shows, how could you ever love anywhere as much as you love Paris?

“Your ego shedding its molting?”

Chat lifts his head indignantly, pouting.

“It’s a good thing I find sarcasm a good display of your wit, Bugaboo, or my feelings would be hurt several times over.”

“I’m only looking for a couple times.”

“My Lady!”

You giggle against you glove and he flashes you a crooked grin, but truth be told, you could probably stand to dial it back. Brief as it was, your back and forth with Félix has impacted your conversation traits. Even Alya asked what your sass setting is stuck at these days.

There’s just something about the interactions that kind of, well… _embolden_ you. Maybe it’s because you’ve finally knocked your first couple kisses out, but there’s a fresh confidence to the personality traits you associate with Ladybug.

You’re even having semi-normal conversation with your sweet Adrien!

You know that, because Alya shoved her phone in your face to show she recorded one such conversation.

“In commemoration of you chilling out,” she cooes. You stick your tongue out. “For real, girl,” she goes on, flipping the phone around to rewatch the scene herself. “You gotta tell me what your New Year’s resolutions are, because they are working some incredible juju.”

Finally, you crack at a late night study session, tell her about the seven minutes with Félix, and are nearly beaten to death with your own cat pillow.

“Girl!” Alya alternates growling and squealing the word. “ _Girl_! I cannot _believe_ you kept this from me! And for so long!” She swats you with the pillow again. “When did you learn to keep a secret, I am _impressed_!”

Then her eyes narrow behind her glasses.

“You’re not hiding anything else, are you?”

You laugh nervously.

She doesn’t seem interested in waiting for an answer and sits back on the bed, letting you up from the flogging. “Man, though,” Alya sighs. “A secret love affair!”

You sputter and flail and roll off your bed.

“ _Do not call it that_ ,” you insist from the floor. You grip your comforter tightly. “It wasn’t anything like that! It was one time, for like, not even ten minutes, and I haven’t spoken to him since - haven’t even _seen_ him!”

“If not an affair,” Alya accuses, “what do _you_ call it?”

“What it was!” you say loudly, though your tone has some confusion to it. “Which was _nothing_! It didn’t exist long enough to _be_ anything! It came and went, like whoosh! And then it was gone, over, finito! You can’t call it anything because it wasn’t anything.”

Your friend nods along deeply, eyes closed, taking in your words.

“So a tryst then.”

You grab your cat pillow and scream into it.

**#**

“I want you to know I believe you.”

You and Alya are at your locker again, and you quit fishing around for extra pencil lead to raise an eyebrow at her. “About what?”

“About Félix -” and you are immediately shushing her, and looking around quickly to make sure no one heard. She pushes your silencing finger away from her mouth. “About you not seeing him,” she whispers, annoyed. She gets over it quickly. “I’ve been keeping a lookout since you told me, and he must be on the other side of the campus, because I haven’t caught sight of that gloomy dude at all.”

You open your mouth to protest, but nah, he’s kind of gloomy.

“So! I endorse your resumed crush on Adrien,” and you give her a flat look over how she stage whispers his name. “I mean, he’s not here all the time, but at least he’s not a ghost.”

“Of course he’s not,” you say. “And anyway, it’s not like my crush left or something.” Alya’s smirk immediately falls, and she taps your shoulder. You blink. “What? I never stopped liking Adrien for a sec -”

She takes the shoulder she’d been forcefully tapping and uses it to turn you - to see Félix brush past, that same void cat-stare on his face.

You watch him go, mutely, until he disappears around the corner.

“That’s crazy!” she says. “I don’t believe it!”

“Welcome to my life,” you grump, unsure of why your mood has suddenly tanked.

“No, I _literally_ don’t believe he was just passing by! I swear on my little monkeys I would have seen him before now if he had a class over here.” She crosses her arms, tilting her head. “I'm _way_ too good of a intrepid reporter to have missed him, if this is a part of his route. No, no,” she shakes her head. “There’s nothing that could bring him over here besides -”

Alya stops herself then in a wince. She bumps up her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Right. Of course. Duh.”

You’ve watched this whole display while hanging off your locker door, wondering still where this crummy feeling is coming from.

“What?” you ask half-heartedly.

Her look is of total sympathy, and yours becomes one of concern.

“Girl. He came over to see _you_.”

No.

“ _Right_ as you were insisting you ‘always’ liked another guy.”

Oh no.

“Yeah. That’s some rough stuff."

You close your locker, specifically so you can let your head fall against it. Loudly.

"Ouch, girl.”

No part of being a heart breaker appeals to you.

Why is this happening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seventh inning stretch! I think it's about Adrien's turn to bat


	7. spring part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We are products of our past, but we don't have to be prisoners of it.”  
> ― Rick Warren

**SPRING  
2/4**

 

Caffeine Fiend lets out a shrill laugh as you and Chat dive out of the scalding liquid she hurls at you.

Something you find interesting about her: her appearance. Most Akuma you face look to be what they feel is the strongest version of themselves. In their manipulated minds, their feelings are warped into necessary justice, and they transform, typically, into what could be seen as a shining beacon.

Caffeine Fiend is looking _rough_. Her hair is frazzled, her long ponytails unkempt, swinging around her like heavy pendulums instead of fanning out when she turns. The dark circles under eyes are exaggerated and deep; the eyes themselves are strained and bloodshot. Her makeup is bizarre and heavy, with huge eyeliner wings and perfect circles of dark, powdery blush.

She reminds you of a uncared for porcelain doll, and that’s probably the most depressing thought you’ve ever had about an Akuma in the middle of a fight.

Her colour scheme is Neapolitan. Brown, white, pink. Continuing with the dolly theme, her dress is babydoll and frilly, with too much lace and loads of toole. Torn up and stained, the dress bounces around slowly, like despite the holes in it, the fabric is too heavy. A Victorian high collar and matching boots both have ribbons that are knotted and frayed.

Usually, you’re able to gleam more of what’s troubling an Akuma by their appearance and ranting, but she’s not giving you much to go on. The coffee correlation is clear, with her twitching limbs, tic’ing face, and quick, stutter-filled speech.

But the _why_ is not immediately available to you.

You two keep out of the coffee she’s slinging around; anyone hit with it becomes a manic zombie, groaning about sleep but unable to stop trying to do _anything_.

All the patrons on the train platforms keep starting any task and then switch to another: from picking up leaves to making phone calls to getting into a fight and then hugging someone else.

“St-stop-your-moaning!” she shrieks from atop a decorative clock tower in the center of the train station’s quad. Her words rush out of her mouth, crashing into the back of her teeth like they can’t get out fast enough. They all slur together. “Sleep-is-is-is-for-the-the-the-weak! This-is-the-only-way-to-to-get-any-anything-done!”

Hoo boy.

“Time to _bean_ her back up, Scotty.”

The sheer amount of coffee puns might be the real monster here.

“Any guesses to her item?” you ask from below him. Unfortunately, that splash attack has a worrying area of effect, and you two have to keep your distance from one another to keep from making easy targets.

Chat has his baton split in two, alternating twirling them in each hand. “Not yet,” he admits. “Nothing’s standing out. Might be looking at an Anti-Bug situation.”

You recall Chloé’s earrings, and how that was not easy to figure out.

“I agree. Alright, kitty, want to to run some interference?”

“Always,” he grins. “A staple of our dynamic _brew-o_.”

Tikki, give you patience.

“ _Lucky Charm!_ ”

A flash of light.

And a plastic bag floats down into your hards.

“The heck am I supposed to do with this?”

“C-c-ome-here-and-an-and-get-to-work!”

“You’ll figure it out, just stand your _grounds_!” he calls before taking a running leap off the roof to play decoy. You shake your head before taking his advice and holding still for a moment to get a good look around.

The world flashes around in grayscale as you look for red and black polka dots, and the monochrome makes you think of Félix. He wouldn’t be dropping stupid coffee puns every sentence, and all of his praise would be backhanded, if he bothered to give it at all. 

You don’t think someone like him would be very different in uniform. He’d likely think having a persona is too much work, because he’s the laziest perfectionist you ever met. He’d just uncross his arms, sighing, ‘let’s just get this over with’. He prefers to do everything on the first try, no practice, and you bet he wouldn’t be interested in patrols at all.

In the courtyard, Chat almost fumbles the landing on his cartwheel, barely avoiding a splash.

It’s not necessarily a good thing, but you're once again glad your kitty is the kind of person who yelps when they barely make a dodge.

You spy with your blue eyes: the clock tower’s minute hand, the umbrella of a falafel stand, and an extension cord for the lawn keeping equipment that was abandoned in the frenzy.

“Ladybug! The thermos!”

It all makes sense now.

“Do it, Chat Noir!”

“ _Cataclysm_!”

**#**

This ending is kind of a downer.

As the evilization bubbles away, rolling up and dissipating, Caffeine Fiend is revealed to be a frazzled and confused girl. You’re sad to see she doesn’t actually look much healthier freed from the magic spell. Normally, this is where you two cut and run, but you’re getting a strong Lila vibe right now.

“Hey there,” you start gently, kneeling down slowly next to her. She flinches. “What’s your name?”

“Br-Bridgette,” she stutters, blinking too much.

Chat Noir is perched on his haunches to the side, his baton dangling from his propped hands. “Bridgette?” he asks, trying to get her attention. She looks at him, but then she’s looking past him, her eyes bugging out. “Are you okay -?”

“Is that the time?!” she cries, scrambling onto her hands and knees. You and Chat both lean back as she panics. “If that’s the time, no! No! I’m not okay!”

She starts to complain about time, there never being enough time, and how on Earth is she supposed to meet the deadline _now_? Station attendants come to help her, and Bridgette shakes her hands in worry, wondering where her portfolio bag has gone, and where is her swatch book?

Deadline, portfolio, fabric. Some kind of fashion or theatre student, probably. A stressful, low sleep lifestyle that prides itself on time management and working under pressure.

If you’re not careful, Bridgette could be you. You promise yourself no matter how similar you might seem on paper, you two are _definitely_ different people.

You wouldn’t want your pigtails that long, anyway.

Your earrings _beep_ as Chat makes a buzzer sound, “ _Ehn ehn_. Frequent flyer alert.”

“Volpina two-point-oh,” you agree with a somber nod.

If this is the last you hear of Caffeine Fiend, you’ll eat your ribbons.

"If we arrested her, she'd need a  _mug_ shot."

" _Kitty._ "

**#**

After de-transforming around the corner, you’re not paying much attention, and throw open the bakery door into someone.

“ _I am so so so sorry_!” you whine. How are you still like this after all this time, seriously. You step out from behind the door and feel the blood drain out of your face.

You sent the door flying right into _Félix_ , a red line forming straight down his face, a strudel smeared across a black sweater vest. He glares at you through one eye, growling the word ‘jinx’ through grinding teeth.

“Marinette!” Papa scolds, and Mama is coming out from around the counter with a damp towel.

“It was an accident!”

**#**

As an apology for their disaster of a daughter, your parents send home a couple of boxes of strudel with Félix, and you have been sent to carry them.

The walk is quiet, but his annoyance is pretty loud, despite you guys not talking. He stomps along the sidewalk ahead of you, and that is just _fine_ with you. He needs to lead the way regardless, but you can do without him glaring daggers into the side of your face the whole way.

It’s actually not that far of a walk, and his ‘passing by’ comments make sense. You completely forgot about the apartments over here; you walk the other way to school, and to the train and bus stations, so this area gets forgotten about.

He opens one of the double doors for you, and you are disappointed when there is no elevator.

“Sorry, are you _inconvenienced_?” he asks, starting on the stairs.

“I said I was _sorry_ ,” you complain, following him around the banister to his walk up. “Next time, it’ll be on purpose.”

“Yeah? Aiming for a full body cast?”

Félix can’t see you stick your tongue out. “You’ll need one after we get to the top of the stairs.”

“Going to plant a rollerskate for me to trip over?”

“Banana peel.”

“Classic.”

When he opens the door, the only light you can see is a clip lamp attached to an occupied fishbowl. Immediately to the left is a kitchen, as he flips the switch above the stove.

“The table is fine,” he says.

You nod, taking in the room. And you do mean _room_ , singular. It’s a studio. Not even a closet, but a rack against the far wall is where his pressed clothing hangs, right next to the ironing board you think he must use everyday. There’s a stack of flat and square-folded shirts on the end.

That’s about the only tidy thing about the place. The bed is unmade and has no frame, just a box spring and a mattress stacked on the floor. The table has only his laptop and some schoolwork so it’s easy to find a clear spot for the boxes, but all the chairs but the one before the laptop have towering heaps on them. Books, papers, folders haphazardly piled way too high and wobble as you approach.

The ‘kitchen’ is actually a kitchenette, and you’re not sure even Mama could make it work. The bathroom is completely dark, the door half closed, and the floor has scattered, wadded up paper balls across it.

There can’t possibly be more than one person staying here.

“You live alone?” you ask, taking one more look around the room. Your eyes stop on him as he answers.

“Yeah.” The water in the sink is running on low as he’s rinsing the sweater vest. You hadn’t heard him remove it. “It’s close to campus.”

Your nails tap the table as you lean against it. “You moved to be closer to school?”

“I moved _here_ because it’s close to the school.” Félix starts filling the sink, keeping his back to you. “I was moving regardless.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. After a moment of silence beneath the sound of running water, you wander over to the fishbowl to look at the little guy inside. You’re surprised to find a bright blue betta fish. He hadn’t struck you as the type.

“Who’s this?” you ask.

“Hm?” he glances over before turning off the sink. “Oh. Hercules.”

“Tough little guy?”

A ghost of a smile. “Yeah.”

You wave goodbye to Hercules as Félix submerges his vest and the fruit filling on it. You lean your shoulder against the small strip of wall between the entrance way and the kitchenette, watching him gently scrub at what will likely be a stain.

“I really am sorry.”

“Whatever.”

It’s not a particularly caustic response, and you find yourself looking for a reason to stay. If you’re being honest, the setting is a little intimate for you - not in a romantic sense, but living quarters are private places. They are a reflection of the people living there, and that’s why everyone insists on cleaning up before anyone else comes over.

Bedrooms are an even wider window into a person’s psyche, and in a place like this, you think it’s easy to maybe learn something about that person they don’t want known.

Could be payback, a secret for a secret.

But that’s not why you’re still here.

You feel _sorry_ for him.

Everyone is different, of course, but this does not seem like a happy place for anybody. Your year as Ladybug has giving you a keen eye for stress, and this place _depicts_ stress. Unhappiness resonate from these small walls, frustration left all over the wood floor.

The way nothing is cared for, beyond what will physically be on his person and seen by others. Félix is clearly a skilled loner, but you’re no longer convinced this adept solitude is his first choice. Could be why the only stuff he seems keep up are his clothes; he has no love for the living situation.

But you’re a hero, not a savior.

“I should get back,” you say, trying to fight off a disappointment you don’t understand.

He shifts his eyes to you, and in the yellow stovetop light, you’re reminded there’s green in those grey irises. After a moment he returns his attention to his work.

“Do whatever you want,” Félix says without pretense. That’s the closest he’s ever gotten to saying ‘bye’ to you.

The sudden lump in your throat becomes a fast, “Thank you.”

He sighs, stopping what he’s doing.

“Don’t.”

You push off the wall. “But -”

“‘Three people can share a secret if two of them are dead.’” _That_ stops you fast. He attributes the quote to, “Benjamin Franklin. A shared secret is a known secret, Marinette. Even if we have the same secret, it’s not  _ours_. There’s yours, and then there’s mine, and then we don’t tell anyone.”

“...Yeah.” He’s right. He’s rude and annoying, but he’s right. Marinette almost blundered through a Ladybug issue. “Still,” you insist, your hero tone coming through, “Brings a whole new meaning to ‘takes one to know one’, huh?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t it?” you challenge lightly, as he pulls his hands from the water. The hand towel on the counter is closer to you, and you hold it out to him.

He doubles down. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Why not?”

He holds up one hand. You look between it and his face a few times, not following. He tch’s.

“No Miraculous. I am _not_ one of you.”

**#**

Ever since you took the strudel to his apartment, you’ve seen Félix around more. Not that you two are necessarily looking for each other, but you cross paths more often now.

“He must have been avoiding you before,” Alya observes under her breath, only for you to hear, as the both of you notice his dark ensemble across the quad.

You hate to admit it, but she’s probably right.

Let’s be real, though, you can’t blame him.

“Hey, Félix!” she suddenly calls.

Everyone at the lunch table is startled by her outburst.

“Over here! Join us!”

“What are you doing!?” you hiss, grabbing at her waving arm.

“What?” she asks innocently. “We haven’t seen our old classmate for a while. Let’s check in.”

Her grin is wicked, and you want the earth to open up and swallow you whole. Especially when Félix doesn’t ignore her and starts to make his way over, despite looking very annoyed.

Nino nods after a moment, always down to socialize. Your sweet Adrien, though, looks a little peeved. He slides his tongue across his top row of teeth beneath pressed lips. You’d know that annoyed look anywhere; he has it any time he reads a text from his father.

Did Adrien not like Félix?

Well, you _were_ an uncomfortable weirdo around him, maybe Adrien thinks he’s a bad guy?

Confirmed. “He wasn’t very nice to Marinette,” Adrien says, refusing to watch Félix approach. “Maybe he should be on his way after you say hello.”

Holy cannoli, be still your heart, is he defending your honor?

Alya waves him off. “A misunderstanding! _Right_ , Marinette?” The imaginary hearts bubbling around your head all burst at once, and you gape at Alya. “Tell them,” she insists, lightly punching your shoulder.

You most certainly will not. All you’ll give away is, “He’s not actually a bad guy.”

Adrien doesn’t look convinced, and you don’t want him angry. Ever. For any reason. “Really,” you tell him, craning your neck a bit to get into his line of sight. Your sweet Adrien doesn't seem interested in hearing anything in defense of your guys' former classmate. “I was just being a dork. Bad first impression.” You smile at him with a tiny shrug. “Remember ours?” you try.

Adrien returns your smile with a plastic one and your heart sinks. “I guess,” is all he says. He’d been leaning his forearms on the table, but as Félix nears them, he hides his hands underneath it, and finds the trees to his side interesting.

 _Wow_.

You didn’t think it was possible for your sweet Adrien to dislike anybody. He’s friends with _Chloé,_ for goodness sake.

Félix comes to a stop at the space between you and Nino. He keeps his bored cat-stare on the one who summoned him. “Yes?” he asks Alya.

“Just checking in, fellow Mendeleiev survivor.”

“Hey, dude,” Nino greets, lifting a hand to emphasize the gesture. “How are things on the flipside?”

Félix’s mouth tics, and you know he feels like his time is being wasted. “Not that flipped,” he answers. “No matter the wing, school is the worst.”

“My man!”

Neither you nor Adrien have said anything.

Alya doesn’t let the silence stick. “You remember Marinette and Adrien, right?”

“I _endured_ Marinette.”

“Hey!”

You scowl good naturedly and he smirks, Alya and Nino laughing. Adrien’s corner remains quiet. “Adrien,” Alya chides. “Say hello!”

He glances over long enough to say, “Hey,” and then continues to glare elsewhere. The three of you are fairly surprised. You can’t think of a time he’s been so dismissive of anyone.

“Don’t mind him,” Nino says after a moment. “He’s always tired when he gets back from work.”

“International man of modeling,” Félix acknowledges, and while there isn’t anything particularly hostile about his tone, you narrow your eyes at him. It’d be very easy for that to be a mocking sentence. “Must be tough.”

Adrien finally faces him, with a quick sizing up glance. “Piece of cake,” he says.

Félix tips his head to the side. You’re getting a kind of Alpha Male vibe right now, and it doesn’t appear you’re alone in that; Nino is glancing quickly between both men, and so is Alya, though her eyes are more critical.

“You sure?” he asks, his smirk not very friendly. “School, work, extracurriculars -” What, like fencing and piano? “- Seems like a lot for anybody.”

“Not for _me_.” Adrien stands then, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I rise to my challenges.”

“Then you’re better than the rest of us.”

You don’t know what that means, but Adrien’s pretty eyes widen before narrowing. If _Adrien_ were a cat, his pupils would be slits. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and you think about all the times Chat Noir holds his tongue when he’s mad at you. It’s not the same ( _of course_ it’s not the same), but you’re pretty struck by the similarity.

“Nino’s right,” is what he finally says. “I’m tired. Catch you guys in class.”

The table’s stunned goodbyes follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got struck with an idea at one in the morning, so this just got a bit longer. But I swear it's a better way to tie it all together than I originally planned!
> 
> Because I don't want Spring to wind up being eight parts, though, these last remaining sections will be double-ish the length of what they have been. Apologies if that is an inconvenience! Congratulations if it isn't!


	8. spring part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.”  
> ― William Golding

**SPRING  
3/4**

 

After Fare Lady, a recently terminated tollbooth operator, is freed from her Akumatized reflector vest, you drag Chat Noir away.

“Ow,” he says dully as you shove him around a corner to ensure you’re both out of sight.

“I should kick you butt,” you warn. “I can’t believe you! You were being _way_ too rough!”

His claws scratch at the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he admits in a sigh. “Yeah, I was.”

You cross your arms. “You’ve been in a mood the last couple of days,” you tell him, raising an eyebrow he can’t see. “I get that. You’re entitled to it. But what happened today _wasn’t_ acceptable. I’m wrong when _I_ let my emotions get in the way of my judgement.”

Do you want Anti-Bugs? Because that’s how you get Anti-Bugs.

“And so are you.”

“We have so much in common,” he says. It’s that flirty tone, but his heart’s just not in it right now. You frown.

“Look, I’m sorry, Ladybug,” he sighs. His shoulders are drooped. “My headspace is a mess. My feng shui is all outta whack.”

“What’s -”

_beep_

Your cheeks puff out as you blow out a breath. “Look,” you say, grabbing your yo-yo to grapple away. ” _Call me_ , okay? We’ll talk about this when we’re not rushed by a timer. Alright?”

He doesn’t commit right away.

With a leading tone, you prompt, “Chat?”

“...Yeah.” He does not look thrilled at the idea. “It’s a date.”

You don’t want to leave him there, standing forlorn in the sunshine.

_beep beep_

But you do.

**#**

You’ve only been home long enough to take a shower. You’re wandering around your room in your PJ pants and a tanktop, when you communicator chirps.

You readjust the towel twisted around you head and, after making sure your door is latched closed, open the channel with the video chat off.

“Ladybug.”

There’s a tin to his voice across the line. _“Come here often?”_

You smile softly. Even if he can’t see it, you hope it comes across in your voice. “I don’t usually respond to cat calls.”

 _“My lady,”_ and you can hear him smile, too. But then there is a pause, ended by a sigh. _“I know you don’t normally take social calls, either.”_

“I don’t consider this a social call,” you tell him honestly. Tikki keeps swirling around your head to listen, and you poke her once as she goes by. “Fighting Akuma is just as mental as it is physical. If you couldn’t walk out of a fight, I’d carry you. If you can't think your way out, I’ll carry you then, too.”

On any other day, when you're there in person and he’s feeling better, Chat would look at you starry-eyed and wobbly-lipped, moved by another Ladybug speech of camaraderie and strength.

But it is not another day, and he definitely isn’t feeling better.

 _“I dunno about that,”_ he sighs.

“Come on,” you try lightly. “You said your feng shui is janky, right? Let’s rearrange some upstairs furniture, kitty.” He chuckles, but doesn’t say anything back. You’d been pacing around your room in slow circles, and come to a stop.

“Are you still upset about what your Kwami said?”

There’s a tough silence on the other end, and if Tikki is floating around to eavesdrop, why wouldn’t Plagg be?

You hope you haven’t put him in a tough spot.

 _“Not exactly.”_ You don’t think you believe that, and say so. _“Really,”_ he insists. _“Of course there are others. That’s not it.”_

You sit on the edge of your bed. “Then what ‘exactly,” you raise a hand to make finger quotes he can’t see, “do you mean?”

_“My kwami... pointed one to me one of those candidates they were talking about.”_

Tikki gasps softly, and you look up at her. Her eyes are very sad as she shakes her head in disappointment.

 _“I can’t believe my Kwami went to **them** ,”_ Chat says, frustrated. _“They - argh, I’m not getting into it. Yeah, I said Kwami. Yeah, I’m talking about you!”_ he says loudly, you think holding the communicator away from him. _“Anyway,”_ and he brings it closer again. _“I can’t believe I’m lumped in with that person.”_

Yikes.

Looks like Plagg hooked himself up to a couple of winners before finding Chat.

All the more reason to keep Félix a secret.

“Listen,” you say, carefully dragging the towel from your head. Your hair's still damp, still warm against your neck. “Whoever they are, _they_ aren’t Chat Noir. _You_ are. Your Kwami told Tatia that _you_ are something special, not the, the...” Oh, how’d he word it? “The ‘candidate or two’ he looked in on.”

He only listens, and you press on.  “You’re as much like that person, as much as I’m like Josie.”

Sorry, Josie.

“ _We_ are Paris’ heroes. _We_ are the Miraculous Protectors. At the end of the day, it’s us and no one else. It’s not about who could have or almost made the cut. All that matters, is that you and I are the ones who _did_.”

You look a little silly at the end of your speech; standing there in your pajama bottoms and tank top, with squiggly wet hair stuck to the sides of your face, a towel clenched triumphantly in your free hand and the communicator in the other.

Would have been cool, had you been in uniform, though.

 _“You’re incredible,”_ he says, softly, feeling the awe. _“You know that?”_

You drop the towel on your computer chair. “It’s come up a time or two,” you smirk.

He tells you he’ll keep all that in mind, and that you'll have to do this again.

You say he better not lose confidence again, or you’ll have to knock sense into him next time.

**#**

Tikki still looks concerned when you flip the comm closed.

“What’s the matter?” you ask, peeling off the wet locks welding themselves to your cheeks and neck.

She’s quiet, almost pensive, and then, “Plagg. He never should have made Chat Noir aware of a candidate's identity.”

Picking up the towel, you feel around for a dryer place, and then start rubbing at the ends of your hair. “Yeah, they sounded lame.”

“No, Marinette,” she says. “On principle alone, we’re not to make candidates aware of each other. There are certain characteristics we seek in the hearts of people for candidates, but it is how those traits manifest that brings us Kwami to our wielders. There is no other way to word it but say the person we chose is the best fit. But that does not make them _better_.”

Your purse your lips to keep from frowning. These are similar thoughts to what you had in the fall.

"Have I met a Ladybug candidate?"

Tikki shakes her head. "But even if you had, I would never give you their name."

Still toweling the ends of your hair, you believe her.

“I will _always_ discourage comparison, even between wielders. Circumstances differ so incredibly, it simply isn’t fair. Applying the logic of one Ladybug to another Ladybug’s delima will solve nothing. All it could provide, perhaps, is insight,” she says, swooping down to sit on your pillow.

“All we are, are memories, Marinette.” She blinks those big eyes up at you, “Our experiences shape us. What could be obvious to us now, was unthinkable to someone before us. It’s just not right to say who would handle something better.

“I swear to you, I could never think of any of you as the ‘best’ or ‘worst’ Ladybug. Each of you have only ever tried your hardest.”

Her eyes begin to well, and you come to the bed immediately. Poor thing. Lowering yourself to your knees, you bring her and the pillow closer, and she pushes her big head up to nuzzle your cheek.

She heaves a tiny sigh. “Plagg feels differently. He believes in keeping score, that competition is healthy. And I suppose it can be,” Tikkie admits. “But it can also be stressful, and disheartening.”

“Hey now,” you coo. “Something like that can’t take Chat down so easily. No Akuma is coming for him.”

She smiles. “Of course not, Marinette. The Miraculous stones shelter wielders from other Kwami. But _candidates_ are still at risk. That’s another reason we usually try to keep wielders apart from them: so they don’t see who actually made a pact with a Kwami.”

With an understanding smile, you climb into bed, and Tikki immediately curls up beneath your chin when you head hits the pillow.

“If anyone who was ever upset were Akumatized,” Tikki says with a yawn. “The world would have come to an end some time ago. Nooroo normally can only impassion one or maybe two people at a time, so his wielder has to make it count.”

Doesn't he just.

Hawkmoth doesn’t settle for ‘upset.’

Hawkmoth prays on the _distraught_.

You’re glad she can’t see your face, because you’re not sure what expression you’re making.

You definitely agree that this isn’t a competition, per se, but you have absolutely been comparing yourself to every Ladybug you’ve learned about in the last year.

Overtaxed Beatriz.

Meek Josie.

Champion Tiffany.

The night the Kwami spoke with Tatia, Plagg had praised Sara, but said nothing of Kyle, her replacement. Despite _him_ being on the same team with Tiffany when she actually felled a Hawkmoth. You guess he tallies up something beyond victories to rank his Chat Noirs.

Since Sara didn’t live long enough for one.

You have _got_ to keep reminding yourself that even the unsung heroes are still heroes.

Like with the police, you’re better at fighting Akuma, but aren’t better, period. You can strut like a peacock with the worst of them, but you hope you’ve surrounded yourself with enough honest and good people that no one will _let_ you.

You turn off the lamp.

And dream of red masks and black masks, with all manner of eyes.

**#**

The next day, rain is coming down in buckets, and Félix is waiting for you at lunch.

Alya makes you swear to give her the deets when you get back, and you follow him to an empty classroom.

He crosses his arms, leaning his back against the teacher’s podium, and you put your hands behind you, reclining against the first row desk.

“One of my classmates asked me if I’ve ever met Ladybug or Chat Noir.”

Uh, okay? Cool? “Go walk around Paris for ten minutes.”

“ _Because_ they’ve seen Chat Noir ‘on top of that bakery’ by my district.”

It takes you a second, but then you blanch.

“No way!” you hiss.

“Way.” He’s not impressed. “What are you thinking, having meetings at your _home_?”

You scoff in recovery, squaring your shoulders. “ _We don’t talk about it_ ,” you parrot his words from his apartment at him, adding, “And anyway, we don’t have meetings.”

He is expressionless. “Not once?”

“Not at my house!” You sigh through your nose. “We can’t. He doesn’t know I’m me.”

Félix just stares at you.

Your defensive glare grows quizzical. “ _What_?”

“What do you mean he doesn’t know?” He gestures towards the widows, the courtyard just outside. “This whole time you’ve -” He stops himself, eyes widening before he closes them in a grimace. “How is that possible,” he mutters to himself. “You couldn’t possibly…”

“Use your words, Félix.”

He gives you a look that is a perfect mixture of exasperation and resignation.

“You don’t know who he is either. Do you.”

You regard him with real suspicion.

“No,” you admit slowly. “I made it a rule.”

“A _rule_.”

“Yeah,” you say, annoyed. Who does he think he is?

Félix shakes his head in some kind of disbelief. “Unreal.” Then he glances towards the door, lowering his voice further. “Whatever. If he doesn’t know, then what is he doing there?”

Did he call you in here just to be a prat? 

“I owe you _zero_ explanation, Félix. But since you still expect one.” You’re scowling. “Marinette has been saved by and has also assisted Chat Noir in the past. Our school is constantly getting roughed up. My friend runs the Ladyblog. He checks on me sometimes.”

Both his eyebrows raise slightly. “Mighty Parisian hero collecting his reward?”

If he were closer, you might have smacked him.

“He is _not_ like that.” Not with anyone that isn’t Ladybug, anyway. “He asks me _questions_. About Akumatized classmates, and if there’s info not up on the Ladyblog. It’s like a cop beat to him, I think.”

“And that’s it?” he asks. He’s looking out the window, where the rain is coming down so thick it looks like a hose has been left running on the glass. “Conversation never gets deeper than the weather?”

You huff. “Look. This is work for me, alright? Ladybug isn’t in it for the _kicks_. Chat Noir has made it a point to be a friendly face to Paris, so he talks to the citizens. That includes Marinette, and _no_ , it’s not always crime related.”

You can’t claim your kitty isn’t in love with the chase. It’d be an outright lie to say the thrill doesn’t appeal to him. You don’t know anything about his home life, but you get the impression being Chat Noir is a chance to escape, let loose, breathe.

“We’re here to protect all Parisians, and that includes _us_ ,” you tell him with a high chin. “If that means lending an ear, that’s fine.”

He shakes his head, still watching the rain. You know he isn’t, but he looks uninterested, that same disrespectful cat-stare.

It ticks you off.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he comments.

“And you’re basing that on your, what? One day of active duty?”

The skin around his eyes flinches before he glares at you, and you regret your words so much.

Sometimes you are just the _worst_.

You walk up to him, hands up in apology. “Félix -”

“It’s fine,” he snaps.

“It obviously isn’t.” He jerks beneath your reaching touch, but you keep your hand on his shoulder. “That was entirely unfair of me. I have no right to say that to you.”

“What you _have_ , Marinette,” and he pushes your hand off him like it’s burning through his ironed shirt. “Is a _type_.”

“I’m sorry?”

Another unpracticed smile splits its way across his face. Though this one is as about as cold as the December day you met him.

“Blonde hair, green eyes, big on black?” It’s your turn to back up like you’ve been burned. “I’m surprised you even _noticed_ Adrien without the right ensemble. I guess two out of three isn’t bad.”

This isn’t right.

Félix has proven to be standoffish and sarcastic, blunt to the point of being rude, but _never_ has he come across as malicious. The closest he got to being mean-spirited was that weird conversation with your sweet Adrien, but that had seemed, to you anyway, directed more inward towards himself than at anyone else.

You had convinced yourself that Alya had been wrong, that he hadn’t been passing the lockers that day just to see you.

Specifically because he seemed fine when you walked with him to his apartment.

He is clearly not fine now.

But you’re caught so far off guard, you’re completely gobsmacked.

“This is a misunderstanding.”

Both of you jump at the voice, Tikki coming to hover between you.

Félix eyes her. “Kwami.”

“Tikki,” she offers. “I’m sorry this is how we meet, Candidate. Félix. I’m the cause of your string of bad luck lately, too, so I’m sorry for that as well.”

Her pleasantness seems to tempering the fire that had suddenly been stoked. You sigh in relief, but keep your eyes on Félix.

He’s found the floor interesting.

You’re unsure if this is a good idea.

“Marinette’s, mm… moment with you should not affect others,” she explains. You both begin to flush. “Please don’t bring other people into something so private. Adrien’s just a civilian, and this could jeopardize what you both know about each other. Same with Chat Noir. True, he doesn’t realize these two people are really one, but it comes down to both sides of Marinette being there for her friend, and taking care of him as she can.”

Félix swallows thickly, but at least it looks like he’s listening to to her.

You feel like such a jerk.

You constantly squawk about keeping your identity a secret, your deepest insecurity having your two halves weighed against each other and having Marinette come up short.

And look what was the first thing you threw into Félix’s face, huh?

“Marinette is nothing if not compassionate,” Tikki goes on. “But compassion is a piece of _human_ nature. Humans say and do things they don’t mean to, or their sincerity can make the inconsiderate.”

It’s the worst thing you could think to hear, so it’s the worst thing you can think to say.

“I know it seems like she doesn’t talk about her feelings, because of how she interacts with Adrien.”

You gape at her, scandalized. “Tikki…!”

“But I’m sure she’ll talk to you.”

“Tch.” Félix bites the sound off. “Why? Because she’s more worried about what _Adrien_ thinks?!” and he slams his fist against the teacher’s podium.

The action surprises even him. His blush is diving beneath his buttoned collar, the tips of his ears must be burning.

He’s so embarrassed.

You'd like to comfort him, within the realm of reason.

When he flinches away from you this time, you just let you hands hover. He turns in on himself, crossing his arms over the top of the podium and dropping his head onto them. Despite how close your hands are, you feel no body heat through his shirt. His hand looks pretty beat up, and you wonder if he's had a couple of outbursts today.

“A little of Column A, and a little of Column B,” you admit solemnly. Deciding she’s done her part, Tikki disappears back into your purse.

“Sometimes, I still think he’s just nice to me because we’re in the same class, or because I’m best friends with _his_ best friend’s girlfriend. I think about it a lot; I don’t want to hear it from him.”

He lifts his head then. Standing straight, he winds up leaning back into your hands, but instead of recoiling, he just turns to face you. You let the crisp fabric glide beneath your fingers before letting them fall to your sides.

Just then, lightning claps brightly and the school is plunged into greyness. It’s the day time, so even though the clouds are black, there’s still enough light to see by in the classroom.

Thunder rumbles close by afterwards.

There is a chorus of complaining moans from the student body floating through the cracked open door.

From one side of the room, you two are once again black silhouettes, backlit from the outside. Only this time, the secret was told while the lights were still on.

Wait.

Cracked open door?!

“Mari -”

You throw up your hands in front of his face, nearly touching his mouth. He pulls his head back in confusion but when you quickly jerk your head towards the entrance, he sees your cause for concern.

He backs away from you, further into the room, lifting his arm to hide the bottom half of his face in the crook of his elbow.

Félix can’t afford to be seen over here, in an empty room; he has no classes on this side of the building.

Which means _you_ are going to have go outside and run interference so he can leave.

Blowing out a quiet breath, you turn to him, holding up your hands in a ‘It’ll be okay’ gesture. He sees it out of the corner of his eye, but he keeps his caustic stare on the door.

Taking a deep breath to settle yourself (and internally berate yourself for not noticing such a thing), you head for the door and reach for your purse. The backup generators haven’t kicked in yet, and the hallway is gonna be kinda dark.

You tap the lock screen to illuminate your way, and swing your phone around to face ahead of you, praying it was some stragglers looking for a room to kill their lunch period in, found it occupied and left.

Maybe Alya followed you.

It could be Chloé for all you care, so long as whoever they are, they showed up _after_  all the Ladybug talk.

The blue light of your phone fades into the hall as you push the door open. Twisting your outstretched hand, you step out of the room -

\- and find someone standing across the hall.

The high window leaves them in a black outline, and a quick raise of your phone begins to shift to a slow one. Time is grinding to halt, the light from your screen seeming to drag up half an excruciating inch at a time.

The designer sneakers.

Blue jeans.

An undone, short sleeved dress shirt, with arms crossed over it.

Adrien, looking down at you, expression unreadable.

Mother Hubbard!

Your chin bobs up and down as you open and close your mouth, nothing but strained, tiny words fumbling out.

“You - I - but why are - and in the - I - I -”

You trip over your legs as you stumble quickly backwards.

“Can-you-excuses-me-for-just-a-minute-okay-thank-you-be-right-back-bye.”

You shut the heavy door as fast as you, which is not very fast at all, and then throw yourself against it, arms spread out comically wide, as if to block anyone from passing. A completely useless gesture.

But what else can you do?

“It’s Adrien,” you mouth to Félix when he angrily gestures for you to go back out there. “ _Adrien_.”

He throws his head back, palming his eyes and grinding his teeth.

Both of you are on the struggle bus.

Great.

_Knock knock_

You both flinch.

_“Marinette?”_

Félix makes a shoo’ing gesture towards you, and you shake your head theatrically.

“Go!” he hiss.

“And do _what_?” you whisper back.

_“Marinette.”_

Your head knocks back against the door, and Félix looks at you like you’re an idiot. “Go… ask him out!”

“Are you crazy?!”

“It’ll distract him!”

_“Guys.”_

A beat.

_“I can hear you.”_

If another lightning bolt could just break through the glass and kill you right now, that would be swell.

Félix throws his hands up in frustration, then stomps over to the first row desk. Both his hands are palm down on the wood, and he bows his head, shaking it slowly.

There is no possible way you won’t be able salvage this. Well, salvage in the sense that you identity isn’t in trouble. You, and Félix, are likely to come out looking some variation of stupid, though.

But you imagine Félix will agree: protecting Tikki is the priority.

You finally crack open the door.

Your sweet Adrien gives you a small smile.

“May I come in?”

You’re startled when the door is pulled open further by Félix. “Go ahead,” he says. His blush is creeping back up aggressively, and you realize he’s going to fall on his sword before you can fall on yours. “I’m already leaving.”

“W-wait…!” you start, but he’s already brushing past you, and Adrien lets him.

You two watch him go. The backup generators finally kick in, but Félix is already around the corner, followed by a -

No.

There’s nothing there. It must have been a flicker of the lights.

**#**

You blow out a slow breath, but suck it back in when Adrien says your name. Through your bangs, you peek up at him. He stares after your schoolmate, looking apprehensive.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Huh? Yeah.” You brush your bangs back. “He was just, uhm… Saying hello?”

He scrutinizes you slightly. “You sure?” he prompts, clearly not believing you.

“...Sort of.” You relent a bit, but not far. “He wanted to talk to me.”

“About what?”

“About… uh, something?”

Your sweet Adrien crosses his arms. “Look,” he sighs. “You don’t have to say. I just wanted to check on you; the guy’s not exactly known for his sunny disposition. And I thought I heard a... commotion.” Your going to pass out from the constant relocation of blood from your face and back into it again. "But when I opened the door, it seemed like you guys needed a minute. So I waited out here."

Deciding to skirt past the 'commotion,' you say, “He’s really not that bad, Adrien. He lives near my parent’s bakery.”

He starts to frown, but seems to stop himself. “Do you see him a lot?”

“Not as much since after winter break.” You pick at your nails, glancing down at your shoes and back up. “He came in every day during that.”

Adrien runs a hand through his hair. “Well, alright. As long as you’re good. But, hey.” He puts his hand on your shoulder. The heat from his touch is immediate, and sends a blush straight up your neck to your eyes.

“I _am_ your friend, Marinette.” He smiles. “Not because of Alya, or a seating arrangement. Because I like you. You’re a great person to be friends with.”

Another pat on the shoulder, and he leaves you.

“Marinette!”

You jump out of your twitterpated state at Tikki’s panicked cry. She flies out of your purse, looking around in concern.

“Wh-what is it?”

She ignores you as she frets, zipping around frantically. You miss a few times, but eventually you scoop her out of the air.

“Talk to me, Tikki, what’s going on?”

“Did you see one?” She cranes her head to look around from within your gentle grasp.

“A _what_?”

“Oh Marinette! We have to find Félix!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody make sure to hit a save point.
> 
> We got a boss battle comin' up.


	9. spring part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will burn you.”  
> ― Lauren Oliver

**SPRING  
4/4**

 

Your run is breathless.

Most, if not all, students should be back in their classrooms by now, and Tikki holds on for dear life beneath your blazer as you run down the halls.

“This is crazy!” you pant, reaching a hand out to grab the banister. You use it as leverage, the momentum sending you swinging around it and into the stairwell. You hit the landing with a skid, barely stopping short of careening into the wall.

“Crazy doesn’t make it false!” Tikki says, holding onto your shirt tightly.

You take the rest of the stairs down three at a time.

Tikki had told you before that the Miraculous stones make the wielders invisible to other Kwami; it’s the sole reason Hawkmoth doesn’t have a laser guided rocket aimed at your house. But candidates are still at risk.

Harder to see.

But still at risk.

You charge out the front entrance, straight into a wall of sheet rain. It hurts your skin, and it’s hard to keep your eyes open. You cup your hands at your forehead, creating a small awning over your face.

When Tikki had started freaking out about locating Félix, your first thought was to find him in his classroom after the bell rang, but he wasn’t there. He’s not out front, either.

No one’s out in this monsoon.

“He wasn’t that upset!”

Tikki doesn’t risk flying in the storm. “You don’t have to be sobbing on the floor for Hawkmoth to hear your cries, Marinette!”

“This is crazy!” you repeat. You’re practically yelling over the rain.

Tikki has crawled up to your collar. “You have to find him!” she insists. “An Akumatized candidate isn’t something you’ve faced before! They’re a terror you don’t know!”

You squint into the downpour, Paris’ safety briefly set aside. “If Hawkmoth got Félix,” and you’re jogging around the corner, to stand beneath the ledge shielding the school’s incinerator, “Hawkmoth has _me_. My identity.”

The rain is loud, echoing around the cement alcove. You’re soaked, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, if something happens to your parents. To Alya, Adrien, anyone that’s ever known you. Forget all your insecurities, forget your civilian complex - _this_ is DEFCON One.

You’re Ladybug to protect the city.

You don’t take credit to protect your loved ones.

Now they’re in danger.

“Not necessarily,” Tikki advises, shaking rain water from her body. “Noomoo reads hearts, not minds. Unless your identity was the cause or one of the causes for his distress, Hawkmoth won’t have seen it!”

You’re not convinced, looking at her miserably. You’ve seen it, seen Akuma talk to Hawkmoth, answering questions no one else can hear.

“While it’s true that Hawkmoth can be heard by their Akuma via magic, it’s not strictly telepathy.” You stare at her. “Akuma and Hawkmoth can hear each other’s responses from miles away, but they _must_ be spoken.

“Unless Félix says that information _out loud_ , Hawkmoth won’t have access to it.”

You try to blink your way out of your fear-filled haze, trying to understand. “So… Even though we were talking about my being Ladybug, as long as that’s not the _exact thing_ that pushed Félix over the edge, Hawkmoth doesn’t know?”

“That is correct.” Tikki assures you.

If Nooroo could simply scroll through people’s days to find pain, Hawkmoth would not need to be so opportunistic. And Hawkmoth shouldn’t know to ask: like Tikki keeps saying, candidates are nearly invisible to other Kwami; if Hawkmoth is using his powers, then he is transformed, and Nooroo would not be around to even _realize_ Félix is a candidate.

She nuzzles your cheek, and you gratefully pat her. You’re still scared, but your knees aren’t shaking anymore.

“The best way to protect your loved ones is to find Félix.”

“Right! Limit his chance to mention it!” You throw up a fist, a physical sign of your determination. “Let’s do it! Tikki, _Sp_ -”

A series of terrified shrieks cut through the rain fall.

“Marinette! Please be careful! If it _is_ Félix -”

“No time for that! _Spots on_!”

**#**

You don’t realize what you’re looking at right away.

A series of orange spirals are stamped along the walls, windows and floor. Whatever they are, they’re _hot_ , the glass and tile floors melting. Smoke rises from the grooves, the swirl patterns flickering like red hot coals. Pure heat rolls from them, creating a mirage effect above and around them.

“Ladybug!” is called in warning, but you’re already hand springing away, just in time, as one of the spirals slaps into the ground violently where you stood. Steam puffs up into the rain, like water on a heating rod.

As you land, you hear the sizzling.

From a crouch, you look up to find the source.

The rain doesn’t reach his shoulders. The heat radiating off him is too great, the water evaporating inches above. Like the spirals, he is surrounded by the wavy, shimmering haze of a heat mirage, but you can make him out well enough.

Whoever he is, he’s sharply dressed for a silhouette: his entire being a black void; his arms sway across his body as he walks towards you, but you can’t see them as they pass - as if they go _through_ his body, instead across it. Like a dense shadow, but the outline is fine and detailed despite the temperature interference.

You can make out the folded collar and hem of what you believe to be a fitted pea coat, narrow slacks, and squared off gloves.

There is a purple kerchief tucked into where the breast pocket would be. Left side, over the heart.

A white, featureless mask is angled back. The hair could be neatly combed back, but both it and any skin that would normally be seen are lost in the same void as the body.

A dapper dresser.

As he walks, the asphalt dries. The basketball court is scorched by his steps.

Water splashes and sloshes behind you, and your backup has arrived.

“It’s raining cats and ladybugs out here,” Chat quips.

“Game face time, Chat Noir.”

“By your leave, my Lady.”

You both kick off the ground, diving away from one another. Rolling into your landing, there is one of you on either side of the Akuma, and only then does he stop walking.

Chat’s baton is split in two, and he flips each end in his hands. “Got a name, hot head?”

The white mask continues to face forward, though he tilts his chin towards Chat Noir.

“Back Burner.”

And now you know what the ‘spirals’ are.

Stove coils.

You think of Sabrina’s father and his broken arm, and though your suit keeps your dry, a chill runs down your bones at the thought of one of those spirals hitting a person. You remember Queen Bee and Tikki in the fall.

_‘The dead stayed dead.’_

_‘There is not a magic to bring someone back to life.’_

You two have got to get him away from people!

“Does that mean we can deal with you later?” Chat’s hopeful tone is facetious, but the way his eyes flick to the glowing marks seared into the court tell you he’s on a similar page.

“I _am_ the later,” Back Burner advises. He is toneless, his voice as emotionless as the empty mask.

The negative space that makes up his hands goes white hot, and flash fades into a pair of the glowing coils. The steam hisses in the rain, and with a snap of his wrists, the discs head towards you two.

The pores of your suit give your hands grip on the slick asphalt. Even over the rain and adrenaline, you can hear the concerned gasps and cries of your schoolmates and teachers as you cartwheel out of the way.

The trouble with the frequency of Akuma attacks is that it’s become a specter’s sport.

People think as long as they stay out of the way, they can watch.

Your dodge feels dynamic, but the awe of the crowd turns to panic when the spinning coils go wide of where you started and slam into the brick hard enough to spark.

“You aim sucks!” Chat yells from the basketball hoops he’s perched on.

Back Burner has moved towards the exit, a wave of hot air in his wake.

“He wasn’t aiming for us!”

“Well,” Chat spins his baton to shuck water off it, raising his voice, “I’m aiming for him!”

He jumps from the basketball hoop, launching his weapon with a backhand throw. Like the spinning discs before it, this shot goes wide of its target on purpose - it hits the entrance way, ricocheting off and pegging Back Burner right at the side of his face.

It knocks his head to the side, but it doesn’t slow him down.

You both go after him, skidding to a halt at the bizarre chaos outside. In the time it takes you two to get out there, Back Burner has sent his scorching projectiles into dang near _everything_. The sides of buildings, the road, cars - all have sizzling blisters around the coils. The pavement boils thickly along the outline the curling metal.

It casts the immediate area in an eerie glow, made all the more ethereal by the pulsing coal-like appearance: the violent orange and red light refract in the steam and rain, almost like there’s a powder paint in the air.

“We can’t let him keep doing this,” you say. Your disturbed awe is obvious. This isn’t like crunched cars or cracked buildings. Again, you think of one of those rings hitting someone…

You’ve never dealt with an Akuma without a target. This distress, this anger isn’t focused - it’s probably one of the only things buying you time. With Back Burner’s consistent silence, you can only guess Hawkmoth’s demands are either lost in the haze, or being outright ignored.

You don’t know all of what this is.

But Fortuna had seen it before.

And she was good enough to warn you last summer.

_‘...the reason the adult Akuma do more damage is because their pain doesn’t have a single source, typically.’_

_‘When everything is out to get someone, everything needs to go.'_

When wanton destruction seems to be all they want, the name of the game is speed, she’d said. Just destroy anything on their person, don’t worry about being precise.

Whoever this is, they’re in a lot of pain.

Alright.

“Mask or kerchief.” You begin to spin your yo-yo. “The Akuma is in one.”

And if it isn’t, you’ll go from there.

Chat suggests you go for the mask, and he’ll make for the handkerchief at the same time. Pincer attack.

“‘Cause you gotta get up to get down.”

After that ridiculous lyric, Chat Noir bolts off to make sure when you two are coming, Back Burner won’t be able to see it.

With a jerk of your arm your yo-yo immediately flips up into the air -

_“Lucky Charm_!”

\- only for it to flop down, with no transformation.

You catch it with a start, looking at it in alarm and confusion. Gripping it tightly, you throw it back up - “ _Lucky Ch_ -” down it comes again, dropping like a stone into your hand.

“... _Lucky Charm_?”

You stare at your yo-yo.

It stares back.

Back Burner lifts his dark arms, making for another unaimed attack.

His summoned weapons clatter onto the street in a heap of sparks as Chat tackles Back Burner to the ground. It’s a clipped attack, and Chat rolls off him in the same motion, springing to his feet.

“Hot, hot, hot!” he hisses, shaking his smoking hands and stumbling away.

The mask is knocked to the pavement, sliding into one of the molten spirals boiling the street.

You are surprised to see the mask began to smoke and melt like anything else the coils come into contact with.

You are surprised Back Burner himself is not immune to his own resentment.

You are not surprised by the face revealed. The black of his body is creeping up his chin and down from his hairline, dark tendrils snaking their way towards one another. The fact that it hasn’t swallowed him whole yet is likely one of the only reasons you’re not rescuing your parents right now.

“Félix.”

You are _very_ surprised that name doesn’t come from you.

With far less zeal than normal and hands still steaming, Chat’s _Cataclysm_ is merely tapped against what’s left of the mask. Blackened and misshapen, caving into the heat and destruction, no Akuma makes its escape from the remnants.

With no prompting at all, your yo-yo _poofs_ into a polkadotted oven mitt.

Wasting no time, you brave the heat (the road is scorched where he landed) and quickly swipe the handkerchief from Félix’s breast pocket.

Only it’s not a kerchief, but purple paper.

Like the ones your Mama packs with the strudel.

You can’t say that, of course, so you simply, silently unfold the wrapper. The waxy paper is meant to be sturdy and stay together. You have years of experience, though, and it tears straight down the middle.

And finally, _finally_ , something goes as expected: _un papillon violet_ floats up.

Your voice lacks it’s typical enthusiasm. “No more evil for you, little Akuma.”

_Miraculous Ladybug_.

**#**

Félix was a different kind of Akuma and it seems to have taken more out of him than the usual victim. You hesitate in going to him, unsure of how familiar you’ll look. Chat is unconcerned, taking Félix’s arm over his shoulders and hoisting him up, saying him he’ll get him out of here.

“You’ll change back soon!”

Chat hesitates, his ring beeping again. Félix grumbles, grabbing at his head.

“If I do,” Chat says, measuring you with a somewhat guilty look. You don’t like it. “He won’t learn anything new.”

Wait.

What.

_What?!_

_**#** _

The rain has let up.

After dodging Alya’s requests for an interview and Chloé’s demands for selfies, you loiter around the alley behind Félix’s apartment building - the side you _can’t_ see his window from.

You hope you gave them plenty of time, but you don’t want to risk seeing _not_ Chat Noir helping Félix in. Not to mention, Chat’s Kwami - Plagg - will need time to recharge and you don’t want to walk in on that.

Tikki nibbles on the no bake oatmeal cookies from your lunch.

What the heck happened with _Lucky Charm_?

“I tried to warn you right before you transformed,” she says, looking miserable in your hands. “ _Lucky Charm_ was likely not to appear if the Akuma really was Félix. The damage would be too great, and in order to ensure there would be enough power to repair it with _Miraculous Ladybug_ , _Lucky Charm_ is denied until the last possible moment.”

What had Tikki said before?

_‘It was hard on Beatriz.’_

_‘She never complained, but it took so much out of her because I just couldn’t do it.’_

“I’m sorry, Marinette.”

“What are you apologizing for, silly?” you ask. You lift Tikki up to your face, and press a little kiss to her big head. “You did great, like always.”

Tikki returns the gesture. “You, too,” she giggles. “And Chat Noir.”

And Chat Noir.

You look up at the dark sky. He had said that Félix wouldn’t learn anything new if Chat de-transformed in front of him.

Would that have anything to do with his being a Cat candidate?

“It likely has everything to do with it.” Tikki has finished the cookies. “Chat Noir arrived right after your transformed; he must have been very close. Plagg would have felt his candidate blink out, even more strongly than I did.”

But why would Félix know Chat’s identity?

“Plagg introduced them, remember?”

“You think that candidate and Félix are the same person?”

Tikki bops her head in confirmation. Paris is a huge city, but to think that means the candidates are spread out is flawed logic.

“Power beckons power,” she says.

Take any major, metropolitan area. Los Angeles, St Petersburg, Tokyo, it doesn't matter. There could be a handful of candidates for each Miraculous throughout the city, but a Ladybug and Cat candidate will almost always be near each other, geographically. They are a team, a unit; circling ying and yang.

This is why a lot of Miraculous wielders are married, or related; the natural pull.

Their innate powers will subconsciously draw them nearer to each other, even if they never meet.

Maybe they each work on opposite sides of the interstate, but both eat lunch at the same bistro, etc. Their magical fields will overlap, a mystical venn diagram. Félix was likely the original Cat candidate physically closest to you, and Chat Noir has likely wound up in the area somehow over time.

A weak, unnoticed but still unavoidable prepossessing tug. North and South magnets.

“That power attraction is, I’d guess, why your instinct was to kiss him.” You’re turning about red as your suit, and you’re not even wearing it. “That seeded attraction manifested itself in a way you could understand in the moment, even though it left you both confused afterwards.”

Candidates for the same Miraculous work more like South and South magnets. Like when Tikki explained that Félix would largely have remained off your radar had he been luck innate, two candidates tend to cancel out each other’s abilities, repel one another.

Is that why Chat said he disliked Félix so much?

“Not at all,” she says, taking to the air. “Most matching candidates, mm… Nothing each other. They tend not to feel much of anything at all. There’s a chance both jinx abilities were flaring up because _you_ are near Félix, but that really shouldn’t have affected Chat Noir much, if at all.”

She raises herself to your eye level. “Chat Noir and Félix are _very_ different people. Night and day. I’d say it all came down to personal taste.”

You both giggle.

And then your communicator begins to chime.

Time to head up.

" _Spots on_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe this story was originally four nonsensical sections that didn't really have an overarching story?  
>  _hahaha_  
>  Anyway, epilogue up next!


	10. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.”  
> ― Gautama Buddha

**EPILOGUE  
1/1**

 

When you arrive at Félix’s apartment, swinging down from the adjacent building onto the fire escape to create the illusion of travel, the window has been left open. As you step inside, you gasp loudly.

The bedding is stripped, sheets and blankets pulled from the mattress and left hanging off the side and on the floor. The chairs around the kitchen table have been knocked over, their contents strewn all over the room. The laptop lay open and cracked on the kitchen floor.

It’s like a tornado hit.

You step carefully around the apartment, watching for broken glass and the like. The wood floor is completely covered in debris; torn books, strewn papers, scattered kitchenware, smashed lamps.

The ironing board and clothing rack, the only things he seemed to really care about, are overturned, the clothing in total disarray, though they do seem to be laying where they first fell. Like the rack was tipped over and otherwise spared.

The bathroom door has a series of substantial dents. The switch is flipped on, revealing something worse.

The mirror is shattered.

You quickly scan it, but luckily, you don’t see any blood. You think it’s likely the wooden brush in the sink, amongst the scary mirror shards, that was used to break it.

Not wanting to see anymore, you bring your eyes to the kitchenette, where cupboards are hanging open, and most of the drawers have been torn out.

Thankfully, you find one place spared: Hercules’ bowl. The only sign of disturbance is a slight chip on the ring of the bowl, and you can’t recall if that was there last time or not. The blue betta is simply doing his blue betta thing, and you turn to face the occupants of the room.

Félix is sitting on the thrashed bedding, and Chat Noir is leaning against the table. Legs crossed at the ankle and arms folded across his chest, he greets you with a shrug and one corner of his mouth quirked.

“I can’t tell where the storm was worse: out there or in here.”

Félix has his arms crossed on top of his knees. “I kind of lost it,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, man?” Chat asks rhetorically. “Is that what you think happened?”

“Chat Noir,” you scold. He tips his head, relenting. You come further into the destroyed room, but stop somewhere near the middle. You have learned your lesson that Félix is not one to seek physical comfort, and it might not be appropriate from Ladybug, anyway.

You pull Chat aside and ask what him what his Kwami had to say.

“I believe Queen Bee told us that it was considered a magical anomaly that Josie wasn’t Akumatized after Sara’s death. That’s both true and not true.”

He says Plagg said that because Josie had worn the stones for long, the residual magic left her spared from an Akuma possession. He explains that with the Miraculous, stone wielders and stone candidates remain anonymous and unseen to other Kwami.

“He could be sitting right next to you, Ladybug, and not sense it.”

That’s exactly what Tikki said.

“But this place is trashed,” you whisper to Chat. “He couldn’t have come here and done this in the time it took us to find him, could he?”

You saw Félix’s hand in the classroom at lunch. He must have started… hitting things before school, maybe even last night.

Chat shrugs. “My Kwami said that mystical camouflage we have by default kept our friend here off Hawkmoth’s radar. Until now, anyway.”

Until it got this bad?

“He doesn’t think so,” he tells you, trying to keep his voice hushed. “The kid has a _lot_ going on, I guess, and it all kind of… man, I actually regret this one: his emotions got so out of whack because they _boiled over_.”

Back Burner.

You both look over to Félix. He’s still hunched over his legs, his arms crossed over his knees. His head is bowed down, reminding you of his distressed pose right before the attack.

“Félix?” you ask gently. “Isn't that your name? How are you feeling?”

After a moment, his shoulders shrug slightly.

You’ve never had to stick around for the aftermath of a victim. It’s suffocating, even with the window open.

“May we look around?” Chat asks. It’s less of a question and more informing Félix of what he wants to do, but at least his voice is kind. “Plagg said it’ll help us out, remember?”

Some of the weight comes off your shoulders when Chat says the name of his Kwami. You no longer have to act like you don’t know it.

Félix only shrugs again.

You two get to work.

Some of them are fairly dismantled, but it looks like the folders that once balanced on the chairs contained a lot of documentation. Or copies of some, anyway: transcript of grades and courses from another secondary school, someone named Eugéne Favager’s hefty pay stub, blood work and physical results, a list of immunizations.

You can’t say for certain, but most of this sounds like the stuff your Papa complained about putting together when you started collége. Except the pay stub, you don’t know what that’s for, or who Favager is.

“Ladybug.”

You look up at Chat when he murmurs your name. He's staring pensively at a piece of a piece of paper. He sets it down, motioning you to read it. “It was torn up,” he says. “But the post office stamp is real distinct.”

When you crane your neck to read it, you realize it’s a return to sender marking.

Normally, the post office would just stamp an individual envelope. When a single sheet is used like this, though, that means there was a _lot_ of letters to bundle and send back. You hadn’t realized it yet, but the entire kitchen table is covered with torn in half envelopes.

For whatever reason, you notice one with a postmark date of January fifth. He couldn’t have sent it more than a day or two after your dumb idea to kiss him. You purse your lips some, but this isn’t the time for blushing.

“Why were these all returned?” you wonder aloud, softly, looking at the strewn pile on the table. It’s April now, and even though you’re only matching them on sight and in a few pieces, you’re guessing about eleven envelops in total. These must go back to December or November.

That’s an envelope every two weeks, isn’t it? Why?

“That’s about how often students get report cards,” Chat offers.

He picks up several of the halves and thirds, looking at the seal. “Some of these say Vienne Bellamy, but at least two are made out to Vienne Favager. Not a one was open.”

You lay the January fifth envelope (this one in particular addressed ‘Vienne Bellamy’) on the table like it’s some precious thing.

Chat finds something in a folder you missed, a birth certificate (Félix Apollinaire Bellamy, wow), and provides some insight on the pay stub. You obviously wouldn’t know this, but Chat explains to rent a place on your own, most complexes will require proof of income.

“A student usually won’t have that kind of money,” he throws out. “Ergo this Favager guy.”

Bellamy was the surname on some of the returned envelopes, same as Félix’s. All the required information for a transfer, and the ability to live on his own.

You remember how you felt perhaps Félix isn’t happy with his living situation, whatever it is.

You two aren’t going to get much further on your own, and you look over to find Félix watching you guys.

With only a prompt of silence, Félix starts talking. Starts taking all those clues you and Chat had yet to make sense of, and pieces the puzzle together.

It makes a shocking picture.

When he had told you he was ‘moving anyway’ the first night you came here, what _actually_ happened was his mother sent him away. His natural jinx ability plagued those around him. When he studied abroad for a summer, his mother found her life far less troublesome. Of course, none of them knew why this was, but Félix had assumed it was monetary issues, and moved from classmate to classmate’s couch for a bit to free her of some it.

Her luck improved. She found a man that would love her - but only her.

Eugéne Favager, the name on the pay stub.

Favager thought her son was somehow intentionally a plight, and would not allow him to live with them. Favagre agreed to pay for Félix to live somewhere near his school, _alone_ , as long as his grades stayed immaculate.

“Proof that I wasn’t a parasite,” he mumbles.

You and Chat have grim expressions.

So what were the transcripts and health results for?

“I couldn’t find a place near my campus,” he admits. His stare is a million miles away, looking down at the shredded and wadded up papers on the floor. “I had to switch to Dupont at the beginning of the school year; it’s one of the only schools that allows independent living students.”

What about the letters?

“My grades started declining.” His eyes, still out of focus, shift to the side - away from you. “In December.”

Oh no. When the heating system went belly up, and all the students over in that sector of the school were relocated.

“Some… stuff kept happening. I had to buy clothing, replace text books.”

Some Mishap Marinette kept happening more like. What did he say to Alya?

_‘I endured Marinette.’_

You would very much like to lay down under a cement truck right now.

Phone calls about spending outside of his allowance became arguments. But he tried his best.

He didn’t want to screw this up for his mother.

The letters that contained report cards were to show an improvement in his grades, but that was clearly never noticed, as they were never opened. Every time they came back returned, his morale sunk further.

You think back to that day in the quad.

_‘How’re things on the flipside?’_

_‘Not that flipped. No matter the wing, school is the worst.’_

Winter break makes more sense now. He hates this little box of an apartment he’s been shoved into, so when he discovered the bakery, he practically lived there. And he was plugging away at homework the entire time, probably desperate to salvage his scores before the quarter was through.

He keeps talking. “I thought I was making a friend. But then she kissed me.”

A cold shot of dread launches into your gut, a melting ice cube dropped down the front of your uniform.

Félix continues to keep his eyes away from you both.

Chat’s tail twitches.

“I didn’t know how to tell her I don’t see her like that.” When you get out of here, you’re just going to fall to your death off the fire escape, _oh my God_. “So I avoided her.”

You’ll have to confirm it when you two are alone, but despite the luck backlash, you think Félix felt kindred to you in some way - that magnetic pull Tikki was just telling you about. That’s why he kept coming around, despite the risks. But then you went and got all emotional, and teenager-y, and stupid, and _that_ is what spooked him in the end.

You are right to regret that.

You’ve just been regretting it for the wrong reasons.

Coming at him like that made him feel _more_ alone, because he felt you two weren’t actually on the same page like he thought. Félix may have given you a talking to about not sharing a secret, but that was clearly directed just as much at himself: when he confessed to recognizing your Miraculous, he likely intended for that to actually _be_ a shared secret.

But your impulsive reaction implied a different kind of bond than what he wanted, than what he thought was being established. So he withdrew.

Tikki says it’s not your fault, but...

You big dumb big idiot.

That day he heard you insisting to Alya you never stopped caring about your sweet Adrien must have been balm for his soul, and _that_ is why he started coming around again. He still wanted to be friends.

Félix grimaces, his hands gripping his sleeves. “I didn’t mean to lose it with Marinette. I was worried about her. I can worry about her and not have a crush on her.”

Chat sputters. “ _She’s_ the girl that kissed you?!”

“Yeah.”

You drag your gloved fingers down your skin. If you had nails like Chloé, you’d be clawing your face right now.

“A-anyway! You’re not into her, and who knows, maybe it was just a weird situation for her, and she also doesn’t see you like that, and probably, most likely, definitely feels terrible about the whole thing, and really wants you to forgive her, because she won’t ever do it again.”

Chat is now giving _you_ a weird look, and Félix only has a dull-eyed stare.

“I forgive her,” Félix says. “That’s why I was worried about her. She did something dumb.”

Darn him! He’s getting away with that judgemental comment because he knows you won’t say anything in front of Chat Noir!

“That’s what the argument was about?” Your partner asks, turning his suspicious eyes away from you.

“It wasn’t supposed to be an argument,” Félix sighs. “My mood’s been bad for a while.”

When Plagg had offered an explanation for the misfortunes of those around him almost two years ago, Félix only grew more weary. The powers seem bad on the surface, but they’ll be used for good, and Plagg’ll show Félix how - and give him _more_.

He couldn’t turn it down fast enough.

Félix resolved to live better with the information, but after all the harm he’d done, he didn’t feel right about being giving that kind of responsibility. He wasn’t worthy, someone else is surely a better fit.

Hauntingly familiar to your first talks with Tikki.

“And then Plagg introduced me to the better fit.”

Chat rolls his tongue over the top row his teeth beneath pressed lips, just like your sweet Adrien.

Félix sighs heavily before continuing, flexing his fingers on his knees. Reminds you of a kneading cat.

He had gotten a phone call last night from his mother. She got married, and had been married, and didn't tell him.

She told him he can stop writing the letters, because Favager and she will continue to pay for his apartment, but he has to find a part time job if he can’t keep his grades up. And that the money will stop when he graduates.

That she will always, always love him, but even though it’s so awful to say, her life is not only easier when Félix isn’t around, it’s just _better._

She just knows he’s going to do great things in the world.

But he’s going to have to do it without her.

You _lose it_.

“That’s _ridiculous_ !” you yell. Your hands toss up into the air, like you can throw away the horrible notion. “How dare she! She’s your - you live alone - she - as a mother she can’t - she - _ooh_!”

You growl you grievances, stomping as your pivot back and forth, unable to pace within the mess.

“That’s crazy,” Chat agrees, ignoring your flailing red arms. His voice is much softer, though, crushed by his disbelief.

Félix only bobs his head once in agreement.

Anyway, that’s when he trashed his apartment. Ironically, he was afraid an Akuma was coming, and busted everything he could think it would want to posses.

Extreme, but you and Chat get it.

When nothing showed up, he thought he succeeded in his preemptive measure.

He went to school the next day, but he was still pretty tender. He was wrong to try to have a serious conversation, and wound up mortified by his outburst. You remember him turning practically purple with shame.

“I’ve spent so long having anyone else considered before me,” he says without pretense. The lack of emotion pangs your heart. “She really didn’t do anything that bad. I guess I thought I met someone who’d put me first, even for a little bit. When she wasn’t, or wasn’t doing it the way I thought she would, I guess it was the straw the broke the camel’s back.”

All those years of resentment.

Left on the back burner.

That must be what Hawkmoth sensed.

“After I walked away from Marinette, the lights came on, and I don’t remember anything after that.”

And you and Chat know the rest.

“Your possessed item was a piece of decorative parchment paper.” Félix is looking rather tired, but you want to have all the bases covered before you walk away from this. “Why?”

He keeps his eyes down. “The bakery near here. They gave me a lot of free food. It’s been my breakfast and lunch for a week now.”

Probably to save money.

This poor boy.

“It was just after lunch, I think the wrapping was still in my pocket.”

And then suddenly, Chat says, “When the attack started, a student pulled me aside. A former classmate of yours: Adrien.”

You look at him, surprised. Did Adrien not go back to class?

“Agreste?” you ask, feigning need for clarification. “That kid we helped at Christmas?”

He nods, never taking his eyes off Félix. “He suggested you were the Akuma,” he says. “Because he saw you arguing with a student.”

Adrien! You _told_ him it wasn’t an argument!

“And because he hasn’t been very nice to you. He feels terrible about it,” he goes on, and you blink. “I hear his allowance is embarrassingly large. He’ll help you out.”

An emotion finally flashes across Félix’s face, but it’s one of annoyance. “I am _not_ a charity case.”

“No one called you one,” Chat says cooly. “It’s an apology at it’s most patronizing, but he’ll want to help a fellow student.”

“I don’t care.”

“You can’t stop him.”

They glare at each other.

You don’t know what’s going on.

**#**

“Call that friend. Marinette,” you say.

Having the mystery solved, and Félix appearing to be settled down, you and Chat Noir are preparing to leave.

“She’ll want a chance to help you.”

Félix stands, giving you his usual cat-eye stare, but nods.

“Ask her for Agreste’s phone number,” Chat adds. Félix’s stare becomes more vexed on Chat. “He’ll help, too.”

“I hear he’s _really_ busy.”

Chat tch’s, and swallows whatever he was going to say. “Do it anyway.”

Félix also abandons whatever else he thought about it. “Whatever.”

You know that’s his way of agreeing. You tap Chat Noir’s arm as a reminder that you two are leaving.

“Real quick. About being a Cat candidate.”

Félix shakes his head. “I don’t want your Miraculous.”

“I didn’t offer it,” Chat smirks. But then, more seriously, he says, “Kwami talk a big one about inner-strength and being worthy. Realizing, or believing, that you’re not what you think Chat Noir needs to be, does not make you _unworthy_ . The stones don’t make us miraculous; it’s the other way around. The Fox is illusion, the Cat is destruction, but at the end of the day, it’s up to _us_ to give it meaning. Just like how the Butterfly is meant to create, it’s Hawkmoth that’s choosing to create _monsters_. It’s all in how you use it, not in who you are.”

Félix lowers his head. He nods mutely, and you two make for the window.

“I’ll wait a bit,” Félix calls out. You’re already outside the window and have to duck to look at him. “Give everyone a chance to change before I call.”

Your frown is so comically deep it’s past your chin.

“Wouldn’t know what you mean, man,” Chat Noir sing-songs, stepping out after you.

“Of course you don’t.” Félix puts his hands on the pane, ready to close it. “Because Paris is protected by idiots.”

“Have some respect,” you chuff.

“I’m not big on respect.”

Chat is textbook sardonic. “You don’t say.”

**#**

The window is closed and Félix has walked away, and you and Chat stand on the roof next door.

“What, uh,” you begin, tapping your index fingers together. “What do you think he meant by that?”

Chat brushes his hand beneath his nose.

“Adrien has fencing or something, right?”

Oh! Right! Of course! How silly of you, _haha_.

You playfully thump his shoulder. “Chat?” you ask sweetly. “Are you an Adrien Agreste super fan?”

“Listen, the dude’s dreamy, alright?”

You giggle. “Yuppers.”

“Like, a dreamy loser, but.”

You’re appalled. “He is not, you geek! He’s cool! Way cooler than you!”

“I sincerely hope not.”

You scowl at him. But then you turn more serious. "One more question."

He smiles at you expectantly.  "Shoot."

"What Félix said in there, about Plagg telling him his life sucks because of the Cat..."

Your kitty throws up his hands, immediately realizing where you're going with this. "No no, nothing like! We're definitely not destitute. And I might clash with my parental unit, but who doesn't?"

Unit. Singular. So Chat only has one parent, too. You don't ask, though. It's already more than you wanted to know.

"Just making sure," you nod. "Let's go."

“After you, my Lady.”

You two cross several roofs in silence, before you break it.

“Hey.” You bring the two of you to a halt. You still feel like you need to offer him more. “I just want you to know, that was a great speech you gave in there.”

“I meant every word.” Chat stands his baton tall, leaning towards it with both hands. He leans his cheek against the metal. “He’s too much like you, Ladybug. I don’t know about yours, but _my_ Kwami won’t get out of my ear about ‘maintaining balance’. If Félix approached Chat Noir the way he approaches anything else, the harmony would be all out of whack.”

His lips are still turned up and his tone is excited and friendly, but this is clearly something he takes very seriously.

It’s why there was a team of four in America. Black Cat and Ladybug on one side, and Foxy on the other. Queen Bee was the equalizer: she felt the way Sara and Josie did, but had a strong enough skepticism to give Foxy’s side weight. In Brasil, it took a tripod of Miraculous to maintain balance.

It’s why Fortuna and and Queen chose to only _visit_ Paris.

They clearly still believe in protecting the world, that’s why they kept their Miraculous after their Hawkmoths either relocated or were defeated. When they arrived, though, they found you and Chat already in sync, already balanced. If they stayed, they’d be tipping the scales, so they didn’t.

You’re impressed. “You’re not such a dumb blonde after all.”

“I’m a little smarter than I look,” he grins.

You lift a spotted finger to boop his nose, but as you pull away, he leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to the pad of your finger.

“ _Chat_!” you whine, retracting your hand.

His shrug conveys no apology. “I earned a little something.”

You take a step forward, “You did,” and give the hollow of his cheek a quick peck. “But only a little one. And only once!"

Hand on his cheek, he starts stuttering through a sentence, trying to get his thoughts out. “If-if I earned one, I-I could earn another!”

“Nope!” you call, hopping backwards and reaching for your yo-yo. “One time reward!”

“Let’s not be hasty, Ladybug!” he insists, arms wide in a welcoming gesture.

You snap your wrist, the line extending towards the chimney on the other side of the street.

“Sorry! I gotta go with _all_ haste!”

When you land on the roof and look back, you see Chat standing there, watching you. His hands are laced behind his head, his grin crooked and dorky.

You wink, and yo-yo away.

**#**

You’re paranoid for a bit, but you eventually accept that even if it makes you both jerks, you can trust yourself and Félix to keep the truth under wraps.

Félix doesn’t ask for Adrien’s phone number when he calls you, so you invite Adrien on your own the second day of clean up. They glare at each other a bit, but eventually the place is nicer than when you first saw it.

Félix doesn’t thank Adrien, but your sweet Adrien wouldn’t ask for any.

Boys have their pride, you figure.

And you have yours. Which is why all you can do internally scream when an Akuma attacks and Félix makes no effort to help Marinette escape to fight it. Instead of asking him to assist you, you just try to kill him with your mind.

“Sorry,” he tells you flatly, when he comes by the bakery later and you want to throttle him. “I’m not one of you, remember?"

His smirk is so annoying.

As far as you know, he doesn’t see much of Chat Noir. You think that’s probably for the best. He never mentions his mother, or if him and Adrien ever worked out his money issues.

You can be a busybody, but you appreciate the barrier he’s putting up between you two: less opportunity for that magnetic thing to override your judgement again.

All in all, he seems to be doing well, and feeling good.

**#**

“Kitty Noir.”

The air is becoming humid.

It’ll be summer again soon.

“That has got to be my favourite pet name.”

You’re both sitting on top of a billboard, right outside the soccer stadium, having defeated Sue-Vaneer.

You smile at the lovingly sighed comment, but keep your eyes on the police and press down below.

“You told me your Kwami’s name, but I didn’t tell you mine.”

He turns towards you, saying awkwardly, “I didn’t think you’d want to -”

“It’s Tikki.”

He is stunned silent in his glee. You can feel the sunshine practically rolling off him.

**#**

By the time summer vacation hits, you’re steadfast with your new vocation.

But you remember your old one.

If only to make sure you learn from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin! Thanks for joining me on this bananas little adventure! From the comments, some of you were thinking this was going somewhere it wasn't. I dunno if that makes the story good or bad, but I hope not too many people are disappointed!  
> If anything isn't clear (and no one would blame you for thinking so), I'll do my best to answer any remaining questions!  
> Naming Akuma is hard but fun.


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